Ghosts in the Making
by aragonite
Summary: "We are all ghosts in the making." Very true words...but not often a topic of conversation. The Yarders are making the best of a bad situation, but is it worse than they know? Gregson, Lestrade, Bradstreet, and Hopkins feature, as well as eight weary Constables. New Chapter: Killing Jars.
1. Chapter 1

**Ghosts in the Making**

They ought to have expected the storm, or so they thought. Even the weather-glass can fail if a front gives way on a continent twelve days' sail from their small island. Even the telegraph can falter if that storm spends much of its life in open water, in a civilised age where man still sensibly prefers to pilot his crafts close to shore instead of the circling centre of the Gulf Stream. Even the hardest of gentleman can rely on their broken bone-barometers no better than most of the time.

... ... ... ... ...

"Might have known..." Inspector Gregson groaned as the train shuddered to a crushing halt. Rain blew into the passenger-car through cracks and crevices that he was _certain_ hadn't been there that morning. His teeth would have clacked together from the force of the brakes, had not they been shielded by his excellent Spanish cigar—a cigar nearly bitten in twain. He gulped in horror and reached out, rescuing what was the best smoking of the last thirty days. Wouldn't it be just a perfect thing, he thought bitterly, that the PC's were off having their own smoke outside the car.

Gregson had wanted to save his cigar for later, and not risk breathing in a flying cinder. On the other hand, getting crushed by the weight of four Bobbies in full uniform was an ugly way to meet one's Maker. Gregson had no plans for that meeting—ugly or pretty—just yet.

The floor of the train pitched. It yawed like a fishing boat on the wrong side of a whirlpool. Gregson's big body rocked, barely impressed at the fuss about him. He was big, which was a disadvantage. He was squarish—which was pure advantage. About him people were crying alarms through the cramped hall and in their own compartments. Gregson planted his toes firmly into the boards at his feet and held on, waiting for the waves to cease before he did something.

The floor went to a 45-degree slant, with the window-side tilting down. That was not good. It was at this precise moment the bolted-in bench loosed its moorings—Gregson had time to note the appalling quality of the wood (rotted, veneered over, sending a report to the Rail Police posthaste)-before the whole thing slid, with a screech not unlike iron finger-nails upon a wooden slate—pinning him by his thigh against the sloping wall. His weight added to that of the bench's and pressed into the cheap wallpaper. Gregson held his breath, an instinctive urge to lighten his mass, and hoped the wall was not built on the same strength as the rotting floor.

Gregson had a philosophical view to accidents—accidents happened all the time. It was getting stabbed that roused his cold-blooded ire. Still, he assessed as the train continued to settle, things were not rosy. His leg was growing numb, quickly (blood cut off, now that's not good at all). His other leg was impossible to place for leverage so he could free himself. And even his considerable strength was not up to fighting gravity with a bench that, alas, was made to Rail standards of quality. The wood looked like heavy oak, and the iron was solid cast. The broken nails chewed into the soft rot, making most efficient anchors.

The big man held himself still, and waited. He could hear men, women and children yelling at the top of their lungs to his right—that was further up the train, closer to the engine. He was encouraged at that; the police had taken the back cars from their lower price and because there no one cared if a tired out copper flopped on the floor like a dog and took a nap. His ears knew the sound of human panic, and he knew real panic when he heard it. This wasn't quite real panic. That meant people were more angry about getting jostled about than anything else.

Heavy foot-falls rattled the wood, and a metal-like creaking groan slowly echoed through the train. Gregson was a cool one, but his heart skipped just a little as the train settled backwards by another inch. Something outside made a breaking sound. He could hear running water, and—was that-

Lightning cracked, illuminating the compartment for the briefest flash. Gregson caught his breath as Time suspended. With one of those freakish co-incidences that would be hard to believe later, the hissing lamps by his head went out with the flash, leaving Gregson in a watery grey light.

Yes, that was thunder he'd just heard. Suspicion confirmed, bloody lovely.

Bloody tinker's damn it to hell with it. He pulled out his box of matches.

"Gregson!"

The door sagged upon its frame, and a bedraggled (not to mention wild-eyed) Lestrade hung half-in, holding on to the frame to keep from tilting in the rest of the way. He was missing his hat and coat, and his expensive suit sported a tear in his left shoulder and trouser-cuff. Something had sent his dark hair out of its usual brutal taming with hair-cream, and an untidy lock fell across his forehead against a purpling bruise. He was no beauty on the best of days, and less so now, but Gregson decided he would do for sore eyes.

Lestrade might be slow on the up, but he was never slow at catching his rival in mischief.

"That's a NO SMOKING sign you're leaning against, man!"

"Is it?" Gregson drawled. "I was looking for the NO CRASHING sign. They let you smoke by those." He was already tucking his prizes away. The train lurched again, and gravity asserted itself with more aggression. A whiff of dirty water wafted through the now-web-cracked window glazing. Just as Gregson pulled his hand back out of his pocket, the window finished breaking, CRACK. Shards tinkled against something on their way through space.

"Come on, you big clumsy giant." Lestrade kept his grip with one hand; the other he extended. His dark eyes flashed with even darker fire—as if someone had lit sparking lignite within his brain. "Found him!" He shouted over his shoulder. "Murcher! Get over here! Where's your partner?!"

"Careful, Runt. You'll embarrass us-" The train **groaned**. "both," he finished hastily.

Lestrade leaned as far into the compartment as he could—which was nearly to the wall. Gregson gripped his gloved hand and together they tried to pull him free. Behind him, Murcher unbuckled his heavy leather belt and clipped it around Lestrade's much-slighter waist, using it as a harness. Murcher's partner—Johns-held on to him far back in the hallway.

"Not...going to work," Gregson puffed. His face felt red and hot from the effort.

"Murcher, let go." Lestrade reluctantly released Gregson and pulled back. Gregson's brows went up as the small man began tugging on his necktie. "Gregson, get ready. _We'r_e going to lift up the bench, and _they'll_ tip it over."

"What's the tie for?" Gregson asked rudely.

"So we won't have to touch the back."

Gregson looked, and gulped again. In the excitement, he'd missed an important fact: the backing of the bench was a mass of horrid splinters, longer than a hedgehog's prickles, and nothing near as friendly-looking. Anyone trying to grip the most advantageous side of the bench in order to free him would cripple their own hands.

"Don't worry, it's silk." Lestrade said as if that meant something to Gregson's suddenly worried mind.

"Got it on sale, did you?"

"Don't be silly." Lestrade sniffed, out of temper. The Lignite was sparking in his eyes again. "It's silk, you daft ape. Strong as an iron chain."

"Oh." Gregson tried to salvage the situation. "I don't know why you bother with dressing up, Lestrade. You're always getting mud, blood, or filth on whatever it is you're wearing."

"Humph." Lestrade was too rattled for a good retort, or even a satisfying reaction, and that more than anything told Gregson he was in a bad place.

The small man slid on the soles of his shoes to the opposing wall, on the other side of the window from Gregson, and laid down upon his side to wrap a leg of the bench with an end of the tie. Being the fashionable man he was, his tie was many more inches past the minimum required length. He grunted his satisfaction and passed the other end to Murcher, who was also lying down with Johns holding him stable.

"All right, we're going to get this right the first time." Lestrade said grimly. That didn't sound good either.

The PCs worked to pull the bench away from Gregson. Gregson set his back against the wall and tried to push to the left, Lestrade working to tilt the bench over and away from his leg. Wood groaned. Metal nails, squared for gripping, screeched against the wood. And Lestrade pushed with reckless effort to get the bench away from Gregson.

It happened without warning. Gregson felt the agony of blood flooding his numb leg and the bench cracked over to its side, sending sword-like shards of wood straight up.

After that, things happened quickly. Lestrade _pushed_ Gregson's bigger form upward with all his strength, and Murcher caught him like a child. Murcher yanked, sending Gregson half sailing through the air and into the tilting hallway.

Coal smoke mixed with the boiled water of the steam engine, creating a hellish yellow fog that dripped down the walls like thin paint. The soggy smoke curled and drifted into their eyes, not in the least refreshed by the puffs of cold rain blowing in from outside. A scream from in the distance proved to be the train's whistle, slowly dying as it ran out of steam in the boiler. It was a hellish atmosphere, a London Particular gone utterly mad. A London Particular was a fog that only deafened the senses; this was purer, stronger, and he could _feel_ greasy fingers of fog brushing against his hot cheeks, trailing slime over his skin.

"Let's get out of here!" Lestrade heard someone gasp.

"What about the people-"

"The people are all fine—Bradstreet and Hopkins are taking care of 'em—let's run!"

And they did, one foot on the floor, the other foot on the cracking walls as the train-car finished sinking into a diagonal shape. Rain slashed their faces and froze their cheeks but they ran. Gregson could barely see where he was going, but he lacked the shielding helmet of the Bobbies leading the way. Murcher-rough old Murcher-held his precious Bull's-Eye lantern before him like a Magician's Staff, throwing the choking yellow fog aside.

"Get to the country," the big man joked grimly in his thick Cockney. "'There's less o' the fog in the country, Love,' she said."

Gregson guessed he was referring to his sister-Murcher had no time or inclination for a wife-for which all the women of London were grateful. But his hypochondriac sister more than made up for female interaction.

"Oh, that _Richard the Third,_" Murcher blurted, his accent as thick as his sudden Bow Bells' euphemism for bowel movements.

"No cursing the Royals, Murcher." Johns scolded. It was a bloody awful joke, but better than nothing.

Gregson's leg spasmed in sudden agony, and he fell against the crooked wall-nearly on Lestrade, who yelped and struggled to keep them both upright, keep them both going. A moment later the PC's dropped off the planet, and the ugly grey light took their place.

The Yarders understood Murcher's bad language once they could see.

Someone-and wouldn't they love to know who-had unhitched the coupling between their car and the car right after. It put a large gap between themselves and a decent escape. As if taunting its wounded brother's lack of balance, that passenger car stood neatly with all four sides nicely parallel and upon their rails.

_No wonder we were tilting...we didn't have any weight to hold us back!_ Gregson made a note to file charges against whoever did this...even if he had to make something up. He snarled as Lestrade hopped down into a knee-high mist so thick Gregson didn't see how he knew where his own feet were-and held up his arms for Gregson to lean inside.

Gregson accepted the help. The police knew what to do in a hard patch, and they could always take the mick out of each other later. Lestrade was a runt in size, not in actual strength, and he took Gregson's weight calmly-as Gregson had known he would.

The cloud-cover broke up a bit; grey light flooded the world and rail-timbers echoed under Gregson's feet. A soggy-looking riverbank loomed below the gaps in the track, _forty feet straight down_.

People were milling about, looking large-eyed and frightened. The wet meadow was a poor shelter, but it was better than inside the trains. More of the oily yellow smoke curled about them, stuffing their noses with the tang of metal and sulphur. Gregson flinched as a second roll of thunder growled over the fields; a flicker of blue-white light sparked against the heavy dishwater clouds, and did he imagine the clouds were gaining speed?

Bradstreet and Hopkins were separate from the civilians. The Rail's men were long used to this sort of thing, to go by their patient weariness as they guided the people to a relatively sheltered slope. They let them do their job, knowing some of those Rail-folk would choke on a spike before they asked for a copper's help.

The Yarders gathered in a muddled-up throng with the rest of their PCs—Gregson was relieved to count all six—and two of the uniformed train-men, who were talking to Hopkins rapid-fire. Hopkins answered in the same language, and Gregson left them to it. The wind whipped up again, making the long lea grasses ripple like ocean waves. Bradstreet had Lestrade's coat and hat. He passed them over with a grimace.

Gregson's leg collapsed. He fell without complaint; he didn't know how he'd managed to run with it at all—and Lestrade bent over, breathing hard.

"I admit it, I'm impressed. You're a brave man." Lestrade's face was now very white as he stared at him. "You've got nerves of frozen iron, Gregson. I don't know anyone could have done better."

"What are-" Gregson began to demand Lestrade make sense, but the PCs were staring past his shoulder. Relcutantly, Gregson turned.

All this time, Gregson had thought it was a broken window passing a foul breeze into his back.

It wasn't a window.

The walls of the train had been as solid as the floor after all.

The big man tried to swallow as he took in the large, Gregson-sized hole in the wall...a hole he couldn't have escaped because the bench had him pinnned in. A few more degrees, and that bench would have popped him out like a mallet sending a croquet-ball through the hoop.

"Just a normal day for the Yard, eh?" He tried to smirk, but even to his own ears, his voice sounded faint.

"Day's not done with bein' normal, gents." Bradstreet rumbled. His nose was cherry-bright and his Derby was crushed in the brim, forcing rainwater to pour down his back. He looked miserable. "The town's too small for everyone to shelter, but Hopkins is getting us permission to bed down in an old barn for the night. It's the best we can do until the storm passes and the rails clear."

Gregson was too exhausted to be picky. If the roof was there, he'd be glad for it.


	2. Hopkins

**Ghosts in the Making, Part II**

**Hopkins:**

"Murcher!"

The big PC ambled over, exactly like one of the bears at the zoological gardens. Johns, his partner of three months on the Force, followed in his steps like an anxious babe learning to walk. The other PCs continued to stand around the small pile of leather and canvas that made up their salvaged luggage. Behind them the distant string of rectangles and squares that made up South-Dartmoor's share of the Western Line continued to sink.

Lestrade could see better in indirect light, and he was gloomy at the sight of all those nice, safe men, women and children of the line getting themselves bundled up into canvas-covered wagons, borrowed coaches and cabs for the warm, dry beds waiting them in the understated village of Tame.

"I'm going to do my best not to be a spoilt little brat about this," Hopkins grumbled behind Lestrade's ear (odd how Hopkins sounded 20 years older and at least 50 years' more frightening when he was angry) "Because civilians belong in a place called _Tame_, do they not?"

"No idea." Lestrade confessed. He decided he was too weary to be clever. "The Tame...isn't that the stream that almost drank us?"

Hopkins muttered something that sounded more like "_It looks so, sod it_," than "_you're fashin' mad, Lestrade._"

**Crack.**

**Crack-a-thack-a-thack-a-BOOM.**

A third and final sally of the burgeoning storm lit about their heads. Not a single man resisted the urge to flinch as the Heavens revolted. Half the PCs hit the grass with their knees, a product of their superstitions as much as natural human fear (Greenwood because he was formerly Army and reacted the same way to anything that reminded him of cannon).

"It's not much, gentleman." A blocky Rail man with a large mustache and red complexion had to lift his voice to be heard over the sudden tumult. He had to talk fast: they could _hear_ the storm headed right for them, a wall of water that pattered like a million feet on the long grasses. It was just clearing the rise of the slope and headed down. "But it's all dry, and solid, and we can-" A wall of air smelling of the moors—strange flowers, sour soil and tea-coloured pools-struck them like a fist just before the rain did. The air went dark and the Rail Man had to shout at the top of his lungs to be heard by Hopkins, who was less than arm's length away. No one else had a prayer, but they could see Hopkins nod in frantic agreement.

….. ….. ….. …..

A man in wooden shoes led them along a winding sheep-trail to the top of the slope. From there he bade his leave and pointed the right path with a brown finger. Years ago someone had tried to maintain a sign, but it had wilted from wood to rot with time, and all that remained was a drystack stone pillar in the heart of the ancient trod.

It was a cross-roads of a sort; three paths scratched lightly in the thin soil or dug out of the granite that rested just beneath their feet. Funny little sticks lined the way for many long minutes. They were tied with bits of rag hung straight down in the rain, silently dissolving with the elements. Tiny animals made of cloth and bits of sheep's-wool and pasteboard dangled on wool yarn, sodden out of shape and losing their soft colours from endless exposure. Hopkins knew the looks of old prayer-sites as well as anyone, and often took comfort at the quiet acts of faith and prayer. Yet in this clouded watery world, the sight was poignant and sad. They were mostly sheep, goats and some ponies, the natural beasts of the moor, and it was clear that many of them had been fashioned by children.

Small prayers by small people for their beloved pets, Hopkins realised, and suddenly began to shiver. He could not stop his shivering. Lestrade said nothing, but paid him a worried glance, and tried to quicken their clumsy pace.

They were now in the moorlands, and it was hard to pay attention to anything besides the skill of placing one step before the other. Once in a while one could hear, over the roar of the rain, the grumbling of the Bobbies who hadn't really wanted this trip to the country to begin with, and why hadn't the Christopher Gang been so considerate as to get themselves arrested in _London_ where they'd all met?

"I'm more worried that they couldn't find all of the Christophers," PC Harding bawled back at Murcher over the _ding-ding-ding_ of water bouncing off his helmet.

Which, truth be told, was why the police had gone to the criminals, and not the other way around. With twenty hardened—not to mention bloody—former convicts, but nine policemen of varying rank, it was simply cheaper to take the smaller group to the larger. PC Greenwood pointed this out—he meant to be calm about it, but no one sounds calm when they're screaming to be heard.

"Right now, _I'm_ more worried that we'll all die of the headache before we get out of the rain," Johns snarled—a sentiment that the un-helmeted Inspectors had been pondering. It was bitter enough going with their hard-crowned bowlers, but the felted crowns were more like a wooden shingle than the heavy tinned roof that represented the poor Bobbies. Sometimes the rain grew even more fierce, and tiny fountains erupted from the tops of their metal heads in concussion. Hopkins couldn't recall a more miserable day, and he had been trapped in the fens a time or two in the past.

Lestrade and Hopkins were helping Gregson with his shaky leg as Bradstreet led the way with the farmer—or crofter—or whatever it was the man did. But Lestrade was quite tired. Rescuing Gregson from a horrid death had not improved his nerves.

Hopkins slipped once in the soupy muck and went down, hard, against a projected granite stone that the sheep had sensibly circled. He yelped in pain, clutching at his right ankle.

"Bloody hell, now there's two of us!" He shouted (shouting was more masculine than screaming one's head off from the pain).

The rest stopped, and gradually, Gregson laughed. It was a low, soft, thoughtful chuckle against the fates.

"Gregson, stop it. You sound like Mr. Holmes." Bradstreet warned.

"Oh, sorry to give you a scare, Bradstreet. It's just that the humour of the situation's come to me."

"I am not going to ask." Lestrade vowed under his breath. He knelt over Hopkins, the action sending a new wave of water over them both—not that it mattered at this point. Hopkins was still gnashing his teeth. "Nice sprain you have there. Good thing you changed to your walking boots after the hearing." Hopkins shuddered at the idea of taking his best shoes (court and chapel) into this slowly freezing muckland. Lestrade pulled off his sodden gloves (with great difficulty) and pressed around the injured part. "You fellows keep going. We'll catch up."

"Can't see a man twenty feet away in this rain." Gregson pointed out.

"Don't need to see you, just need to see the trail." Lestrade answered quietly.

Hopkins wondered at the odd look between the older Yarders—one of those eerie means of communication he didn't—quite—understand. On top of the shame of his injury, he was feeling quite inadequate to his badge.

"All right, then." Gregson said at last. Then he grinned, unpleasantly. His breath steamed from his smile, a tow-headed dragon. "We'll move slow."

"I do appreciate that, Gregson." Lestrade answered evenly.

….. ….. ….. …..

"Bloody hell."

Hopkins and Lestrade were close of a height, and they both kept their eyes feverishly upon the trail. The grasslands were silvering with endless beads of water-drops in the fading grey light. Night would come quickly, and no one wanted to be caught in it.

"Keep up the language if it makes you feel better." Lestrade advised.

"Not sure it does." Hopkins sighed. "Quite a balancing act here, two men, three legs, and two satchels between us."

"I'm still surprised we remembered our luggage." Lestrade pointed out. "I'm sure we didn't get it all, just the most important bits."

"I think I can live without my tooth-glass for one night." Hopkins tried to make light. "But my comb? That'd be a problem."

"I'll loan you my knife...you can carve a new one while you're off your feet." Lestrade stopped, and Hopkins leaned against him gratefully, catching his breath. Lestrade mumbled something under his breath and changed direction, moving still further up the slope. Hopkins thought he saw two of the PCs standing in the view, but when they closed in, the men were stone pillars, grey as the sky.

"Well, what do you know?" Lestrade stopped, and for no good reason Hopkins could see, studied the stone men.

Hopkins couldn't see anything particularly odd about two lumps of stone, save they were far taller than the living men, grey, and softening with time and lichens. Rain slid through the labyrinth curls of lichen, and dripped silver off the waist-high carpet of moss growing its way to the top. About them the mist swirled and chapped with their steaming breath, no longer reeking of yellow coal-smoke or scorched metals, but growth and tanbark, and that strange scent that only came from very cold air.

Hopkins waited for some sort of enlightenment, but all he caught was the steady drum of rain as it hit their bodies, their hats, the tall stones and the soft leaves of the shrubbery at their feet. The world was made of rain, and there was no sign of it ever ending. And yet, Lestrade might have become one of the stone men, for all the animation he was showing.

Then, as quietly as it began, Lestrade shook his mood off, and he tightened his grip about Hopkins. "Let's go." he said firmly.

Hopkins later wondered if Lestrade had been here before—he acted familiar with this strange land, and he set one foot before the other patiently, ignoring the unpleasant squash of the soaking earth. Heather clumped about their ankles, stroking their tough canvas spats along with small bushes with tiny, tight oval leaves that burned red as coals. Hopkins caught glimpses of colors and shapes in the grey mist: Rowan and bilberries, what looked like wild gooseberries and currants (he wasn't a botanist outside of his childhood fens), and peculiar things with leaves like dark green feathers, that grew close to the earth and clustered around the open, flat dishes of stone that caught quicksilver pools of water.

Lestrade sighed out loud and Hopkins looked where the other man was staring. Birds were out, splashing in the small pools, hunting for worms and insects. Hopkins didn't have to be a Fen-man to know what that meant. When the birds stopped sheltering and went to hunt food...it meant the weather was going to stay exactly as it was...and for a very long time.

"All right." Lestrade sighed again. "We're almost there."

"Almost where?" Hopkins wondered. "I can't see a thing."

"That's Murcher up the way," Lestrade nodded his head at something in the shimmering grey curtain, but Hopkins would have to take his word for it. "Come on, we can get your foot propped up in a few minutes." A white mist was forming at the edge of the earth, soft and white, and for some reason, Hopkins felt uneasy at the way it curled, octopus-like, along the moor.

….. ….. ….. …..

PC Murcher had a sense of duty harder than the granite outcrops. He stood under the roof of the thatch, half out of the wet, half in, but warm as toast in his heavy woollen uniform. Like the other PCs, steam coiled off his broad shoulders; he looked like an operating boiler from a distance.

Behind him in the darkness, his fellows were sparing their breath and stacking sodden luggage in the far corner, where it could drain on the uneven floor without adding to their damp any further. Gregson's hands were white as bone—the cold always hurt him more than most men, but he pulled out his trick cigarette lighter and with a few tugs of the hydrogen, got a brick of peat burning in the stone fire-pit. Bradstreet sniffed loudly.

"Smells like home." He pronounced.

"Home smells like coal, you big..." Gregson gave it up, and winced as he held his miserable hands over the flame (careful not to extinguish it with the water running out of his sleeves). "Where are Hopkins and Lestrade?"

"Almost here, sir." Murcher couldn't wait any longer, and he hurried back out in the wet, returning with Hopkins leaning between himself and Lestrade. That he had left the first shelter in what felt like ages impressed them all.

Hopkins tilted his head up, too astonished to speak. Over their heads a snail's spiral of flat stone coiled, and thatch rested over the centre. Weights hung off the drystack walls, and rushlight tapers. A messy jumble of things loomed in the gloom, like wooden crates and canvas bundles.

"What is this place?" He wondered.

"Great Heavens." Lestrade gasped, and looked surprised at himself for pulling air into his lungs, instead of more frozen water. He coughed that water up just then, hacking into a sodden sleeve. Nearby, one of the constables trailed water from the top of his pot, to the bottoms of his watery soles. Water squeezed out of his clothing with every step, every movement. He looked like a policeman's version of a river god—a being comprised of moving water. His whiskers had the worst of it, draining down the front of his brass buttons until it was a wonder they weren't jingling.

"Thank the mercies John Milton was a man of Broad Street," Bradstreet commented. "Because if he'd been from here, the poetry'd been less pleasant."

Lestrade blinked at him, and decided he was too tired, too stiff, and far too dull to understand what his closest friend was talking about. Then again, Bradstreet _liked_ poetry enough to read it.

"Look at this, will you." Murcher picked up a scrap of wooden box that had been broken for fuel. NEHEMIAH'S NAPTHA read in dark stencil. "There's a Naptha distillery here?"

"Close by, at the very least." Lestrade mused. "This _is_ Dartmoor. You can't fall flat in any direction without hitting a seam of peat."

"Don't recall the name of this one." Gregson frowned. "Betting you it's one of the scores of attempts that collapsed or was bought out by the larger distilleries."

"No doubt." Bradstreet agreed. They was still dripping water as if there was no tomorrow. The plainclothes men were glad that the weather dictated they all wear wool coats and stockings—it would save their health. Johns' sharp eyes found hooks in the walls, carved of the precious wood of the moorlands. As efficiently as they could, they peeled off wet layer after layer. Greenwood also found a stack of mattresses wrapped in canvas. They would do for dry furniture.

"Can you believe that?" Bradstreet marveled as he held up an arm-length of dry clothing. "My Hazel swore this was a waterproof satchel! I didn't believe her!"

"Thought she said it was 'Scotland proof?'" Lestrade asked hoarsely.

"Same thing."

"Good on you, everyone see if anything's dry enough to wear while the rest of our wardrobes dry..." Lestrade blinked. "Gregson, what are you—oh, Dear Heavens, _are you making tea?"_

"As strong as I can." Gregson retorted. "And don't worry. Whilst the two of you were sightseeing and birdwatching on the moors, I was rinsing this pot in the rainwater. Filled it up three times in five minutes."

"Your tea is poisonous on a given day! If you're _trying_ to make it strong..."

"Trying to save our lives, Lestrade." Gregson wouldn't belittle Lestrade in front of the Constables...not too much. "We need a good strong cup of tea to get our hearts back up."

"So long as it does that instead of run off without us..." Lestrade muttered unkindly.

Hopkins thought a cup of tea—even Gregson's—would be Heaven on earth. "Everybody, find your tea-cans." He directed. "Add it to that pot Gregson's got on the fire. We'll have hot tea soon!"

The words were magic. Lestrade watched them sardonically, saving his can for last. Hopkins recalled that the man wouldn't drink sweet tea if he were dying of thirst, but perhaps he could make a concession.

Now that he was sitting down, the strain of the journey showed Hopkins out. He sank down and closed his eyes. The wet was still a part of him, soaking him to the very bone, but it was dripping slower down his skin now. It was a great comfort. Behind him something whistled, a soft, high-pitched cry like a wild animal, or perhaps a slip of the wind sighing through stone. _A ghostly sound_, he thought wearily, then corrected himself. _No, not ghosts. Ghosts wouldn't sound like that, would they?_ Stuff of fairy tales...He was still thinking this when he fell asleep.


	3. Bradstreet

**Ghosts in the Making, Part III**

**Bradstreet:**

It was amazing how much warmer they felt once they weren't taking on water. Bradstreet shivered slightly, and like Hopkins, couldn't stop shivering for a long time. Tea steamed the hut fragrant with assorted black leaves—Lestrade silently and sardonically smuggled a tiny packet of Darjeeling inside Bradstreet's pocket, and the Borderman grinned. It would be their secret; a surprise treat for the following morning when they were all (hopefully) dry and away from Death's Door.

"Stockings first," Gregson cautioned. "Whatever's on your feet, dry 'em off first, and line your boots up over here-" He indicated a place that was warm but not too warm. Murcher made certain everyone had removed their laces first, and opened the heavy tongues for airflow. Johns managed to put up the stockings and foot-wraps up by the windiest wall. There everything could drip dry in comfort.

"You'd think I was at the ports, with feet like these." Greenwood joked quietly to Harding.

"My ears are still ringing," Johns said in wonder. He had lit a third of the clipped rushlights along the walls, all the better to conserve the oil in their lanterns. The tiny balls of light were welcome if little better than matches.

"Think all of our heads are ringing." Murcher agreed.

Bradstreet couldn't say the same, but his head felt stuffed of feathers...he still imagined he could feel millions of rain-drops striking every available inch of his body.

To his watered nose, the stone hut had the perfume of old, dry age and occasional animals. A swallow's-like nest stuck on the eaves, long abandoned and there was a small mound of soft earth and a hole in the centre that spoke of moles, or some other sort of small burrower.

Still wet. He paused and wrung out his mustaches, knowing the Bobbies had already done so.

"God-Almighty." Bradstreet had been tired before they'd boarded their ill-fated train. Thoughts of tea, and tea alone, kept him awake.

That was, until PC Murcher triumphantly produced a damp package from deep in his coat and he remembered no one had eaten since an all-too early breakfast before court.

"If anyone has anything to eat, best check on it now...wring it out if you have to. I'd say a little food will bring us back to the land of the living."

"Hold on." Lestrade stretched slightly, and dug about his dripping gripsack for a bundle of well-waxed paper. "There." He pulled out a small wheel of a dark-rind cheese.

"Oh." Bradstreet winced. "The Missus is not going to be pleased with me."

"You mean you've got to explain to her you went all the way over here, and _didn't_ come back with any cheese?" Lestrade shook his head. "I can't help you with that."

"I've got plenty of Landjäger," Greenwood pronounced. "If anyone doesn't mind eating Army food, sirs."

"Heavens, no...the Empire runs on it."

Gregson ripened the tea with a splash of brandy and wrapped the handle of the pot in a salvaged rag, pouring delicately into waiting cans. Greenwood broke the smoked sausages in half-portions and parceled them out. Lestrade did the same thing with the cheese, cutting up no more than a quarter of the wheel.

Bradstreet nudged Hopkins gently, and the younger man woke easily. He recovered quickly at the sight of something to eat.

Murcher's triumph was a large tin of biscuits—a brief childhood in the country had given him a taste for barley. There was enough for everyone to have two, with two more for breakfast. Bradstreet settled back against a wooden crate, and ate as slowly as he could to make the food last longer. The biscuits were crisp, and naturally sweet. They went well with the wine-soaked, smoked sausage and the soft creamy texture of Lestrade's cheese.

"That's good." he said in aside to Lestrade. "The French in you knows a good cheese."

Lestrade barely gave him a blink of annoyance. "Try the Welsh." He said under his breath. "My grand-mother made her own."

"Don't the French know a lot about cheese?" Bradstreet couldn't resist teasing. It was probably nerves.

Lestrade chewed and swallowed before responding. "More than anyone else in the world, but Bretons aren't famous for cheese." Lestrade admitted to his French blood once in a while—but not tonight.

"Whyever not?"

"I suppose it's because no matter where you go over there, you run into the sea?" Lestrade guessed. "Who thinks of _cheese_ when they're messing with salt water?"

Bradstreet felt this was not worth debating. He saved the last of his biscuit for dessert.

"Look at them." Lestrade said without warning. He said it so softly, Bradstreet barely heard him. The Runner blinked, "casually" looking around. The Constables were settled together for shared warmth, but their hands were white as they gripped their hot tea. Hadn't they warmed up enough yet?

No, that wasn't cold that made their hands white. They were clutching the drinks tightly enough to hurt themselves.

What had the men so nervous?

Bradstreet slipped an eye to Lestrade. Lestrade said nothing—nor would he, now that his point was made.

Bradstreet pondered. Constables were a hard lot—they had all been Constables in the beginning. But if they were upset about something, it had to be dealt with before it got out of hand.

Hopkins limped over at that moment, holding out his personal tea-can. It was well made with a leather insulating jacket, and the screwed lid was also a small drinking cup attached to a chain. "I can't finish this," he said sheepishly. "Would someone like it before it turns cold?"

For Hopkins, 'turns cold' meant about two degrees below the point of boil. Bradstreet held out his own metal cup and Hopkins lowered himself to rest on one leg, leaning close as he poured.

"Maybe we should move everyone closer?" He whispered. "There's a damnable eerie wind howling through a crack in the other wall, and it sounds just like something's screaming. The Bobbies are about to jump out of their beards."

"Good job." Lestrade answered just as softly. "I wondered what was worrying them."

"I'm more worried about other things." Gregson joined the conversation without asking. It was unspoken propriety that the Inspectors would have their own group, and the PCs would have theirs. He made a show of refreshing everyone's tea, stood, delivered the remaining pot to the Constables with the orders that Murcher see to the divvy, and limped back to their side.

"What's going on?" Bradstreet whispered.

Gregson pulled out his expensive cigar—a wet ruin—and pretended that airing it out was very interesting. "Murcher's been rabbity since we found out Devonshire missed out on those six Christophers." He muttered. "One of them, I think, had a problem with Murcher."

That was normal enough news—practically humdrum. If you took grudges personally, you wouldn't live the year out in uniform. But Gregson wasn't finished talking.

"Just before the train wrecked, he asked permission to go outside and smoke, 'calm his nerves a bit' he said. I said of course, but why now when the weather was filthy? He answered that he was starting to see things, said he thought he saw George Christopher on the train earlier."

"_George_ is dead." Lestrade answered quietly and firmly. "I pulled him out of the cut myself. Hopkins identified him as well as I could." Everyone ignored Hopkins' wince at bad memories. "Bloody hell, Hopkins broke his walking-stick on the man's skull trying to keep him from drowning Bradstreet! The splinters alone would've helped the positive identification even if the fish hadn't eaten half his face."

"Ugh." Was all Hopkins said to that.

"Well I saw him on the slab too." Gregson reminded them. "And as far as Murcher and the rest go, I think every copper in London asked to see that ugly face, just to make sure he was dead." He fiercely put his wet cigar on a drying-stone and took a deep breath.

"We all saw his body." Bradstreet rubbed his hands over his warm cup. "Thing is, you can't blame the men. Evil dies _hard_, gentlemen. It dies _hard_."

Lestrade nodded once. His dark eyes were sparking Lignite again. That wasn't a good sign.

"And then there's the wreck itself." Gregson returned to the subject. "How could someone almost but not quite loose the couplings between the cars? Because you know as well as I do, those things don't loose themselves!"

Lestrade, not a rail-man, merely shrugged. Bradstreet's eyes narrowed.

"I wondered about that...not too hard at the time...but yes, I wondered." He gnawed his lip. "Someone who knew what should be done, but not quite how to do it. And they wouldn't have much time to do it. Timing was off. If it had happened just a little sooner...and a little better...our whole car would have been swimming!"

"Mnph." Lestrade's mouth tightened.

"Well, Ratty?" Gregson wondered. "Got any sage advice? You're the Yard's expert in surviving assassination."

"_You_ are the expert in getting yourself between civilians and mayhem." Lestrade reminded him stiffly. "And the last I checked, 'fool's luck' wasn't a particular skill."

"But if we could patent it, even _Punch_ wouldn't be able to touch us."

"I'd sooner face off _the complete Chrisopher gang, including its resurrected members_, than another write-up by _Punch_." Hopkins closed his eyes.

"All right." Bradstreet leaned forward. "We can't do anything until this storm passes—that's true enough. If we are being marked, we're not exactly vulnerable here." As if to underscore his point, a fresh roll of thunder rippled across the moorlands.

"No, just until the weather stops and the trails are passable again." Lestrade pointed out. "You know the moors, Bradstreet."

"True, but the Christophers probably don't." Bradstreet rubbed his chin. "They're all city-folk, moved over to this side late in life to take advantage of the train lines and water-ways for their crimes. They got so bloody dangerous because they never had to hold back. I'd say they know the moors as well as any townsman on a jaunt."

"I hope you're right." Lestrade told him. This echoed his companions.

"Every man in that gang is a monster—living, dead or not proven." Bradstreet dropped his voice so low they could barely hear him at all. "And I can easily believe they'd follow us home in the hopes of getting their revenge."

"I'd say it could be worse than that." Hopkins swallowed hard. "You remember what cracked the case open—Saffron Hill gang killed _one_ of their people, and they killed _four_ of the Saffrons." He shook his head from side to side. "And they called it "evens!"

"So we have three Christophers dead—including George and I insist on calling him dead until proven otherwise—that means they're out for at least twelve of us."

"Why haven't they killed just twelve of any of the coppers over here?" Bradstreet puzzled.

"Back when Abel Christopher was in charge of the gang, that's exactly what would have happened." Hopkins snorted. "Abel was like that. But that cousin is in charge now."

"Tudor's a colder sort than Abel ever was." Gregson stared into his cup. "_He'd_ make a point of taking out twelve selected coppers, and I can't think of any twelve better than the four Inspectors and eight Constables who have been up against him in the past."

"And Lestrade didn't requisition a firearm." Hopkins said wearily.

"I tried! You think I'm going to a place like Dartmoor without a weapon?" This was from the man who could walk East of Aldgate with no more weaponry than a smirk on his lips. He caught them all staring at him. "Paul Lestrade's escaped three times in seven years." He added reluctantly. "I'd be stupid not to take precautions."

Being reminded that one of their men _just happened_ to have a mad murdering brother in Dartmoor Prison in the same general area they were huddled in, was not an enjoyable experience.

"Well, they did catch him all three times, eh?" Bradstreet tried to be encouraging.

"They caught him because he was caught in daylight _all three times_." Lestrade scowled even further.

Being reminded that the mad murdering brother in Dartmoor Prison was completely night-sighted, and here they were in the middle of a dark, stormy night, was even less encouraging than the first news.

"It's your own fault if I start pitying you." Gregson said in crushing tones.

"If your pity's as fine as your tea and tobacco, I ought to be well immunized by now." Lestrade's temper was starting to fray.

"Merciful Heavens." Bradstreet cut in. _"Look at them."_

The Constables were barely speaking, and to a man, their faces were bone white. Murcher, in the centre, looked like a condemned man. Harding was sour-faced and resigned. Greenwood had a military look of defeat—like a soldier who knows he's up against impossible odds. Johns was sweating. Walters, fresh from Surrey only a year, was looking far too pale. Normally the man wouldn't blink if a dynamite was testing outside his bedroom window.

That left the youngest three: Bourne, McAdam and Radford. They weren't even trying to pretend they weren't frightened to be out of their element. They were not only the youngest, they were the only ones besides Gregson who had been born within London. The others could only imagine how very much like waterless fish they were feeling.

In the sudden quiet, everyone realised all conversation had stopped. In the sputtering rushlights, shadows and smoke ran together, blurred everyone's features to white-glimmering eyes and indistinct forms.

No one spoke. All around them there was only one sound: That of the relentless rain, coming down, down, down like hailstones, and an occasional, thin, high-pitched wail of wind that sounded far too much like a scream.


	4. Challenge

**Ghosts in the Making, Part IV**

"I'm going to have a smoke." Lestrade muttered, and stamped to the shadowed back of the hut to do just that.

"Mad-man." Bradstreet said affectionately. "I might just have one m'self." He paused to scowl at the Constables. "All of you, we're not home with the women—we can smoke indoors if we so choose. I advise you do so."

Fingers flew and prayers were breathed, and Bradstreet felt if anything could reduce the fear in a room, it would be permission to smoke. He found Lestrade as a ghostly shape was moving among the piled-up collection of canvas bags, wooden crates and the occasional barrel.

"Find anything?"

"Rolls of felt." Lestrade answered. "_Good_ wool, look at it."

Bradstreet obliged, the two men exploring the texture of the thick, soft fibres. The wool was not a universal colour; the shades were subtle, like swirling marble. "_Good_ wool." Bradstreet nodded. "That's as good as anything that comes off my family's croft." He rubbed a bit of it between his large fingers. "Hazel would like this." He decided. "It's virgin wool, isn't it? Treated with boiling water to draw the felt up. I'll bet you anything this is waterproof."

"I wouldn't take that bet. Looks like it came from the local sheep. I say we unroll'em so the men can actually rest on _something_ and not freeze to death in their sleep."

"Good. I hate funerals."

They sat down on the largest canvas packet; it was larger than a fancy sofa, and just as Bradstreet was thinking it felt like his grandmother's old horsehair, Lestrade was standing back up and lifting the edge of the heavy cloth. "Well wouldn't you just know?" he asked rhetorically.

"What?"

"Pony skins! Take a look!"

"Oh, dear." Bradstreet obliged despite his misgivings. He liked all members of the equine race—_all_ of them, including the donkey that bit his thumbnail in two when he was a child—and he really didn't like to see a beast he considered one of Man's Best Friends set aside, rolled up, and put in storage.

"Stay put." Lestrade advised him, and before Bradstreet could reassure his friend he'd rather swallow his own tongue than move from a soft spot, the small man stuffed whole skins in his arms, and dashed to the other side of the hut. "All right, Constables." he could hear Lestrade saying. "The inside's been waterproofed with Neat's-foot oil, so sleep with the hair-side up. That's your mattress. We'll see about finding some decent bedding for the rest."

He was back before Bradstreet could finish looking in his pockets for matches. "There's enough rolls of felt to start a factory!" He scowled and plucked at the material with an odd expression. "In the middle of nowhere?...doesn't make a bit of sense."

"I'm not finding much sense in any of this." Bradstreet told him. "Now, I can see the sense in a hut in the middle of nowhere to supply a lost shepherd or hunter...I'm used to that. They're all over the place in the wildest parts of the Highlands. But this really _is_ in the middle of nowhere. The train is the closest sign of civilisation, and it's a mile from here, as the crow flies. On foot it's probably three times that."

"It certainly felt like it when we were getting here." Lestrade puffed a damp cigarette carefully. "There's a cistern of some sort behind the hut, and further down an outhouse. It looks like someone lives here, several months out of the year."

"I can't imagine anyone doing that."

"Mr. Holmes lived in a ruin of a hut for days—right out by the Mire."

"Don't remind me. I had a nice picture in my mind of him as an incurable toff, and there he had to go and do something as workmanlike as hide out in the moor for answers."

"I don't think he cares what he puts himself through...so long as he gets his answers." Lestrade said this hopelessly. After years of acquaintance, he was almost to the point where he had the man figured out...but he wasn't brave enough to confess this yet.

Bradstreet opened his mouth to speak, but a dry, ratcheting cough from the other side made him pause. Lestrade made a face.

"Sounded like McAdam." The little man muttered. "Wasn't he just getting over a chest cold?"

"You must be getting over a nose cold, if you couldn't smell the onions on him."

"I take onion syrup every day this time of year. How would I smell it?"

"Good point." Bradstreet set his mouth. "If this turns to pneumonia, he's done for."

"We got him in the warm, probably in time."

"He told me pneumonia runs in the family."

Lestrade was quiet for a long time, silently smoking. Without his collar, cuffs and jacket, he looked even smaller, but Bradstreet knew that was partly for show. Lestrade could make himself swell up with emotions like a viper, until even the largest man in the room forgot they were up against a fellow human, and not some sort of living Titan. Righteous fury upon a liar was Lestrade's favourite emotion for the trick; it wore well on him and blended with his intractable love of the law.

Lightning flickered with a crack of thunder that made them both jump.

"Sounded like the devil's own _bodhran_." Bradstreet swallowed hard.

"...too right." Lestrade's voice was hushed, subdued. He rubbed his damp forearms for warmth.

"Problem will be to keep them awake." Bradstreet said finally. "They're bone tired, but if there's a chance of lung disease settling in, they need to be sitting up."

"And yet if they could sleep, they could rest and not think about how rattled they all are." Lestrade almost groaned. "Lovely."

"Too true."

"Well, Gregson's in charge. Let him know what's going on, and I'll finish checking over the stores here. It looks like we can all sleep dry."

….. ….. ….. …..

Back at the fire, Gregson was pouring out a few more drops of his hip-flask. His face had grown red, for he wasn't fond of the smell of peat. Yet being warm was a pleasant alternative to earlier. Hopkins had shifted his weight in a vain attempt to comfort his sprain. He kept rising to check the progress of drying clothes in the rafters. Gregson let him. It gave him something to do.

Miserable shame that they didn't have enough space to hang _all_ their clothing up for a few hours, but there just wasn't. Gregson didn't like the only choice: wear the clothing that was closest to the skin and dry the outer, then switch over. They were going to be damp a lot longer but at least everyone had woollens.

Hopkins gusted out a sigh and pulled his damp vest off his shoulder. Of course it stuck back on his skin as soon as he let go.

"Look at us," Gregson noted wryly. There's enough steam coming off us to look like the Monday Washing."

"At least we don't _smell_ like the Monday Washing." Hopkins chuckled. He sipped from his hip flask as slowly as possible, letting the hot liquid slide by drops down his throat. "What _is_ this place? It looks like it belongs in a museum of some sort."

"Looks like the Black Houses where my family used to live." Bradstreet mused from behind him. "Round houses...they take getting used to! Solid enough for all that it's drystack stone and a foundation of clay. Or whatever that mortar is."

"Looks like mud and ashes." Gregson said absently. "Ashes are probably the briss1 from the burning."

"I saw a fair share of these the last time I was in Dartmoor." Lestrade did not look happy at the recollection. "Nothing as complete as this. People've fixed everything up to use later."

"Well, this is peat-land." Bradstreet studied the back of the round wall, where a respectable portion of nicely dried peat rested. "I'm thinking...this could be one of Dartmoor's safe-houses for times of bad weather. Can't risk a shepherd falling victim to the elements."

"Not if the elements are anything like _this_, sir." Murcher paid the open doorway a bald look. The rain was _still_ coming down hard. "I've never seen anything like it. The Heavens are furious, aren't they?"

"I have seen these storms a time or two...but I didn't know it could rain like this so far south." Bradstreet shrugged.

"We're in the moorlands. It's more like a northern clime up here." Gregson pointed out. "But the good news is, as soon as the weather clears we're certain to run across on of those shepherds...or a hunter."

"Right now _I'd_ be glad for a poacher." Lestrade muttered into his remaining bit of tea. He was trying to be nice about the sugar (which he loathed) in his drink.

"Hah! We could have him lead us out, and arrest him to justify our being out here!" Bradstreet chuckled.

The wind kicked up. It blew against the two tiny windows, which were shuttered with long twigs woven together. The frail wooden door rattled. A puff of cold, wet air flamed the peat brick, sending Gregson to re-arrange the coals for protection. The warmth all but left the hut, but it was hard to complain about something as impersonal as the _weather_.

"Any more of those pony skins left?" Hopkins wondered.

"Thought those could wait until we switched over to dryer clothes...it's _chilly_ on that side." Lestrade rubbed his hands together, hoping for friction and warmth.

McAdams coughed again, into his sleeve. It went on for nearly a minute. His mates were paying him worried looks. Murcher silently slipped the young man his personal flask, but it was a long time before he could stop coughing long enough to drink it.

"Thank God we all have flasks." Lestrade muttered. "If it were only Bradstreet and his idea of brew, we'd all be dead by morning."

"My brew is not that strong." Bradstreet protested mildly.

"Your brew is the only thing that can stand up to Gregson's notion of tea."

"'_Notion_' of tea?" Gregson sniffed, insulted.

"Well this tea is good enough." Bradstreet said peacefully. "Nice and smokey from the peat."

"Lovely. Malted tea. A real taste of the Highlands." Lestrade grutched.

"At least I drink _tea_, Lestrade. Half the time the stuff in your canteen isn't even tea. It's some sort of stewed plant."

"Which is what tea is, you _nouch_."

Most people didn't know what in the world Lestrade was talking about when he lapsed into the occasional Celtic language. Bradstreet, alas, knew. They could tell by the way he smirked.

"Besides the point, here's what I've found out." Lestrade ticked points off his fingers slowly. "This hut we're in was once a lot bigger—the foundations aren't lining quite up, so the extra supplies could be set aside for a later improvement. Most of these old huts have a nearby source of water, at least they did at the edge of the Grimpen Mire."

"Same back home." Bradstreet agreed. "Basic sense." He frowned. "And all those pony skins...for all we know there are paddocks and sheltering places for the livestock. Sheep aren't completely daft...not if they're moor sheep. They're holing up somewhere, and once the storm clears, if we can find a flock, all we have to do is stick around and wait for the shepherd to find us."

"I'm less pleased at the chance we could run into one of the wild boar." Lestrade said abruptly. "I never saw more than their traces, but those brutes can be large and ill-tempered."

"That's all right. We can eat one."

"I thought you hated pork with a passion." Lestrade stopped and stared at his friend.

"I do." Bradstreet shrugged. "But I also believe in fair's fair."

"Ah...right." Lestrade shook himself. "Anyway...this storm can't last forever—it just feels that way! When it blows itself out, we can sort ourselves and get back to the train line."

"And do so in more or less one piece." Gregson said uncharitably. McAdams was trying not to cough again.

"Did you decide on something?" Bradstreet whispered.

"Hopkins did. I'm giving the job to him." Gregson said mysteriously.

At the prompt, the younger man struggled to his feet, holding on to a pillar for support. "Well, gentlemen," he announced, "It seems as though we'll be forced to endure the pleasure of each other's company for a while longer...and as we're all so miserable...I propose we all do something about it."

As confused as Lestrade and Bradstreet, the Constables looked up at him.

Hopkins pulled out a small silver flask. "This," he announced, "is a quite decent brandy. It was a gift under the advice that I put it to a good cause. Well, fair enough. I'm proposing this brandy as a prize. Yes, a prize. To any of the men here, who can tell of the most frightening experience they ever had in the line of duty. You'll notice this isn't your usual Christmas-tide ghost story. And it isn't the time of year to tell ghost stories, but I'm not asking for a ghost story—but if you do have one feel free to use it. What we want is a real experience, one that you think is the most shivery experience of your career."

Bradstreet's jaw hung open—_he's lost his mind!_ Was his thought, but as he turned to stare at Lestrade, he saw a grudging awareness come over his friend. Slowly, Lestrade's own mouth shut, and he nodded once in slow approval.

_Oh_. Bradstreet thought. _They're nervous enough, and we might very well be in danger, but we're putting all this to good use. They'll think of the past, not the present, and stay awake. Well done._

"Oh, did I mention?" Hopkins paused to turn, sweeping the Inspectors in his gaze. "The jury sits here. If your story beats any of theirs, they'll be sure to tell you.

"However," the young Crane grinned, "if they feel their stories are the best, they'll have to present and prove it."

"You're such a brat, Hopkins." Gregson said admiringly. "That's as cruel as anything my own grandmother could think of."

"Then you have an admirable grandmother." Hopkins shot back.

"Hold on, what about you?" Bradstreet lifted his fingers. "You're holding the prize...are you going to participate at all?"

"Of course I am." Hopkins retorted cheerfully. "I'm going to play this fair and square...and I'm going to tell the first story."

"That's the spirit, sir!" Murcher approved. His battered old face practically bloomed in a smile that stretched from mutton-chop to mutton-chop on his square face. Following his example, the other men leaned forward, all interest...and all ears.

"There you are." Hopkins stopped to put the flask upon the edge of the warming-stone by the firepit. It would heat up the brandy, but not to unsafe temperatures. "I'll start with a bit of background, shall I? You all know me, I'm sure, but I should mention a few things. To begin with, I'm a Crane of the Marshes,2 and I know it's been noted that I can keep m'self neat and clean in the most desperate of conditions...but I assure you, it's nothing to keep clean in London, when the first eighteen years of your life was spent in walking three miles to chapel, through the fens, and you were expected to be suitable for worship!"

The Constables all guffawed at this, and the older Inspectors followed. Good for Hopkins—he knew people, that was one of his gifts...and he knew how to talk to them.

"Now I want to make something clear. We're telling stories tonight. I, gentlemen, will tell mine...but you'll just have to decide for yourself if I'm telling the truth."

That got their attention, all of them. Hopkins had them all, hook and line.

The youngest Inspector stopped and lifted his tea in a salute. "For as we say back home," he advised. "Half the lies you hear aren't true!"

_Well played_. Bradstreet thought. The wind was howling, the rain was pounding, and lightning threw a mad light through the withy shutters, but the Constables no longer noticed. They were completely on a man half their age (if that old), placing a challenge of his credibility upon their seasoned shoulders.

Now all they had to do...was to hope it was enough.


	5. The Fens

The wind...stopped.

As one, all twelve men turned to the withy door. Eyebrows went up...and breaths were held in expectations.

Less than a minute later, the wind returned, and will it, a fresh wall of rain.

Gregson sighed and added another half-brick to the glowing peat. "So much for the powers of _my_ prayers." He said under his breath.

"I'm just grateful the Lord is choosing fire, not water, as his tool of vengeance next time. Otherwise I'd be waiting for an Ark to paddle by." Bradstreet grumbled.

"Bradstreet, you _do_ know peat is a fire hazard even when it's wet?"

"Shut it."

Hopkins stepped carefully across the lumpy land of clay floor, set-in stones, and occasional policeman on his way to the door. He re-checked the latch and managed to wedge a large, loose stone up to hold the door tighter. That done, he went back to the fire.

"I grew up in the fens. I'm sure to all the mothers, there were fewer places to cause aggravation! Now, I was telling the truth when I said we could get ourselves to church through the fens and still be suitable for Sunday-best. But that was _Sunday_. The other six days of the week were a bit rougher on our wardrobes. We went barefoot if we had the choice, and when we didn't have a choice, we were always looking for some excuse to change the situation in our favour."

The Constables were already grinning. Hopkins had in a nutshell shown his familiarity with their own childhood. McAdam was still coughing here and there, but he was leaning forward, taking the strain off his lungs, and new interest shone in his tired eyes.

Hopkins took another sip of his tea and continued.

"Now, it was a playground of the first water. Pun not at all intended, that's just how it was. There were tall grasses to hide in, lots of mud—we'll be up all night if I went into the many uses of mud for mischief!-and what may have been three birds for every one person living in London! Atop of the birds, there were water-rats, whom could be tamed if you were careful, a few wild cats that didn't mind getting their feet wet, occasional wild dog, otters if you were lucky, frogs, voles, salamanders—we called them water lizards—loach, tadpoles, and a hundred million thousand insects of every size, shape and form—and I tell you _that's_ not a lie! Snails, spiders, beetles—moths I've never seen outside of the fens... Sometimes we'd wonder how the birds had room to fly, with all the clouds of butterflies blocking our view of the sun. Sometimes we'd pole our ways to the real thick of the fens, where spider-webs could hang as thick as fishing-nets in the grasses and have a bit of a rest from the biting bugs, but mothers aren't very happy when their sons come home, not only covered with mud, but wrapped in spider-silk with a few of the spinners still hanging on for dear life!"

Lestrade inadvertently brought attention to himself with his amused snort. It may have been the timing of the matter of threads, for he was sitting cross-legged with his tattered coat in his lap, sewing away at the tears.

"You've got a sewing-kit about you?" Gregson wondered.

Lestrade cocked a single eyebrow (Gregson didn't warrant two for the obvious). "Don't you?" He asked in perfectly reasonable tones. He was almost innocent-enough sounding to be believed.

"His grandfather's a sailor, you know." Bradstreet pointed out. "They always carry a needle in their sleeves."

"Well if it keeps raining, we'll put him to work stitching a net." Gregson said rudely. "Because we're more likely to catch a fish for breakfast than a stray rabbit."

"D'you know what the grand thing is about brass needles?" Lestrade asked conversationally. "They don't rust, no matter how wet they get. They just slide nice and smooth, in and out, like a knife through a roast." His look at Gregson was rather significant.

"Anyway." Hopkins prayed for a straight face, and concentrated on the subject at hand. "If there wasn't trouble enough in the fens, there were the stables, and brick-pits, and the blacksmith's, and if the weather hung raw he thought it perfectly natural to find his crowded little smithy stuffed with small boys. I didn't have the braw to be a smith, but he did teach me how to make a nail! The first thing I did when I managed to make my first batch of one-hundred nails all by myself was to bend a handful of them into rings for my sisters. I reasoned a small bribe would help me stay out of trouble when I got home for being out late."

"Hah!" Bradstreet slapped his leg with a large hand. "So I wasn't the only one—only it was female cousins for me—and there were as many of those pestering my life as you had insects in yours!"

"If it works, it works." Hopkins agreed with a grin. "But the women, while they did take my bribes, weren't happy to add char-holes to my list of damages on my clothing. My youngest sister swears to this day it was tasking her with the constant repairs that made her the best seamstress in all of Cambridgeshire, and who's to say if that's a lie? She was as stubborn in her duty as I was stubborn in making more work for her!"

Hopkins held out his mug, and Gregson refilled it. "Ahh." He paused to sigh, and breathe in clouds of steaming black tea. "Doesn't even need a brandy, thank you, Gregson."

A light gust of wind—light compared to the other attacks—battered again at the withy door. A pause, as if a giant drew breath, and then a fresh wave of rain struck, hammer and tongs upon the walls.

"Every family had their own boat, and we would take one on a jaunt if it wasn't already taken. It was easy enough to justify the trip—there was always something to bring home for the pot, and eels were easy to catch if you had the right gear. We could sleep a day away in those long, grassy tunnels. The hum of the insects would lull you right to sleep, if the hot summer sun didn't.

"I'd come home fresh from my Policeman's Exams. Well, fresh, I say, but I was all but glowing because I'd gotten nearly all the answers letter-perfect. No one was surprised as much as myself when I get a call asking if I'd like to come to work a week early! One of their men had been sent up to the big hospital upriver, ran into a skirmish and they would be short-handed. Well, of course I said yes. I wouldn't be working the causeway, of course—they'd leave that to the seasoned old veterans—but I was still good enough for the opening duties and the perimeter walks.

"You want to imagine the thrill! That I was going to go to duty sooner than expected...well! I marched myself down to the station, and there they fitted me with the sick man's uniform, but the other things, the pot, stick and whatnots—even my Bull's-eye was swinging off that giant leather belt...were all new. I couldn't help but feel good, but there was a part of me that felt badly for it. After all, I had my early start because PC Allgood had been found floating senseless off one of the fishing-holes without his helmet and a bad blow to his skull. There was a pall over the whole station, for he wasn't expected to live. The men responsible were no doubt some low-life poachers, or diggers looking for sherds to sell to some wide-eyed toff trying to impress his University instructor! But the old Sergeant at the desk, he looked me up and down in Allgood's uniform, and sniffed once through his giant bulb of a nose, and said in a stern voice, "That'll do. We need another Allgood out here, and sure enough, doesn't he look like him." Which was true enough, we were both young, yellow-haired men and I fit into his uniform like a charm. I didn't mind wearing the cast-offs. When you're the youngest and the smallest in the family, that goes without saying."

Hopkins paused and said wryly, "And when you've outgrown the age of wearing your sister's skirts, you learn to appreciate some things." The laughter all but brought he hut down around his shoulders.

"It was a glorious autumn day, and nothing could spoil it—you know how a young man thinks. When the world is bright, it can't possibly get brighter! So I went off and put up with the praises of the family—they were being good about it, for they really hoped I would do something _finer_ with my life, but in the meantime, I can do something useful, eh?" He flashed his teeth in a grin, and the Constables roared again with laughter, lifting their tea in happy toasts.

"I don't have to tell any man here what it's like to put on the uniform for the first time. You think you're strong as a pack-mule, until you put on all those pounds and pounds and yard and yards of wool, and the helmet...and don't forget that leather collar! Now, I've learned to be grateful for that collar, but it does take getting used to. When we sat down to dinner I was glad I could take the trappings off. But...you know, I was stuck with it _and evening was still hot! The birds bedded down three hours early, because of the heat, and I had picked __that__ day to come home from the Constabulary's in uniform!" _

Bradstreet was smiling as he shook his head from side to side. The smiling was pure memory as he re-lived his own first days in the blue. Gregson was hard put to keep his face down in his attempts to hide a chuckle, and Lestrade was glad he was sewing. It made him keep his head down and close to the needle, thus, concealing his face.

Hopkins paused, still amazed at his youthful exuberance, and finally shrugged.

"It was one of those _murderously_ hot days, and by even-tide, I'd had a belly full of it. My family drifted away, one by one, and I'm sure they did that because too much pride in my achievement would mean I might think they approved of my wearing the blue! So, I made an excuse that I was seeing friends, and took a walk in my _very_ hot uniform, and very thin, _dancing footwear_ known as the Bobby's crabshells."

McAdams exploded with laughter. He coughed in agony, but tears of mirth were in his eyes as he brought himself under control. His friends were scarce better off. A policeman's boots were large, out of proportion to his body, heavy, cumbersome, capable of leaking in the lightest of weather and when it wasn't wet, the air found ways of whistling through the smallest of seams and stitch-holes. If a man was lucky, the wretched things wouldn't drive him to an early medical dismissal from enforced flat feet, or pneumonia. Or warped muscles and toe-bones. Three layers of stockings were the rule for many, but in summer, that was less practical. No one liked the boots save the one man in the higher echelons who was in charge of approving changes in the uniform.

It was hard to say why a man celebrated his promotion to plainclothes—because it meant better pay and prestige, or because it meant they could wear ordinary clothing. But the boots...the boots might have a lot to do with the celebration.

"When the fens get hot, they roast. I went off looking for something to do, but most of my friends were more interested in the fair that was setting up over in town, or they were headed off for a rabbit-hunt in the uplands. I thought about joining, but I'd been caught at the station-house for what felt like days and wanted to spend my free time out in the water. So that I did. I put myself up a bit of food, and pushed off into the water, and I suppose it was because I had no one to talk with, that I fell asleep not long after. Well, it was a hot day and I was young. I didn't wake up until I started feeling cold."

Hopkins paused and took a slow sip. "Here's where the storytelling falters, gents. I was a green lad, all by myself, in the fens. It was night when my eyes opened, and I didn't see which way to go, nor did I know where my boat had gotten to! But I didn't lack for sense. Always better to wait and see when you can see. Don't blindly push through the reeds; you'll net yourself like a fish. I didn't want to get myself netted, because we might love the fens, but the fens are a bit impartial in their affections. We're nothing more than animals in the perspective of the fens—maybe we're more like insects, small and confused. But even a babe knew there were things you didn't do if you were caught out in the fens."

For the first time, Hopkins lost some of his cheery aspect. He grew serious, a bit, and instead of tugging on his tea, began running a fingertip along the warm rim as if in nervous reflection.

"It's easy to be superstitious, you know." He said at last. "I remember hearing a schoolmaster say that superstition happened the most when a man couldn't see something with his own two eyes, and I believe that. There's so much you _can't_ see in the marshes. It's impossible. I try to tell people who've never been in the fens what they're like, but most people...they can't understand it. It's as though your entire world is all water and green basket-weaving. You need a boat to go through the channels cut by the boats before, or sometimes, you'll take stilts and walk in the air like a great bird. _But you can't see_. You can't see anything but the water at your feet, the boards of the boats under your legs, the oars or poles in your hands...and above it all, there's the endless wave of reeds, and grasses, and cat-tails in front of your eyes. That never changes. It's always there, it never goes away.

"The Will-O'-The-Wisp is so much superstition, and there's a part of me that _doesn't_ want to support old tales...but at the same time, the thoughts of that little light in the fens and night...or rather, _what_ might be holding that light...well, that could inspire a man to good behavior as much as a boy. There were bullies on land who would soon enough as turn to crime given the chance...they'd just behave themselves if there was the thought that something might be watching. And the 'Wisps? You can't be a part of the fens and not know about those tiny lights...they were part and parcel of the world we lived in.

"We knew from school that the lights were the flames off the gases that bubbled up at night, under the right conditions. We also knew from our elders that the flames were the candles of the dead, or some sort of fen spirit...a lot of people believed in omens, so the lights could be omens too—an omen for something ill, or just plain something about to happen. People didn't ask too many questions on the nature of the 'Wisps. It was better to just live a good, clean life...and it was wiser to keep the Fens to the daylight hours!"

Hopkins couldn't have _not_ been aware that the Constables were hanging on his every word, with varying degrees of apprehension on their hard-bitten faces. His next words proved it:

"And here I was, neither _better_, for here I was in the Fens in my new uniform, and I certainly wasn't the _wiser_, for it had fallen night! What do you know!"

Bradstreet sneaked a peek to Lestrade. His closest friend was still stitching away, with his brow furrowed with his concentration, but the Runner knew absolutely that Lestrade was listening with both ears.

"Believe you me, gentlemen, but I had enough of my exams pounded into my head that I wasn't about to do anything that went against my hard-earned teaching. I stayed put where I was in my family's old fishing-boat, and I had nothing more than a pile of eel-traps at my feet for company, and the scraps of starlight that came through the curtain of the fen-weeds.

"At night, there's very little to do but sit and notice what you can, and without your eyes to tell you what's going on...well...it's a different experience. I kept my uniform on, but my helmet was heavy and hot and made my head ache, so I pulled it off and set it in a safe place with the eel-pots. I was getting nervous, for I was out in the water, and the only thing I could do was sit...and listen. People think the water of the fens are still and stale. That's not at all true. I could always hear the lap of water against the stalks of the plants, and it would slap the bottoms of the boat. I could hear things swimming in the water...and sometimes, when it was very still, I could hear the water move when things swam under the water...and under the boat. I found my da's old tinder-box, the one he kept in his waterproofed box under the seat, and I lit up my new bull's-eye lantern—the old fellows at the station had teased me, saying you never knew when you'd need one...but we didn't know just how right they'd be!"

Hopkins stopped for breath.

One might have heard, were it not for the drumming rain, Lestrade drop his sewing-needle onto a stone set inside the clay floor. Still, no one noticed his picking it up. Not even Gregson, who was perilously close to letting the tea-pot scorch over the coals.

"If there's anything more frightening than the idea of a 'Wisp, there's two contenders: The ghost of a murdered policeman, PC Richard Peake, whom I'm certain you recall...and the Shuck." Hopkins accepted Bradstreet's offer of a lit penny-fag, and he stopped long enough to puff.

"Everyone who wears the blue remembers PC Peake in those parts. He broke up a gangfight and the following night, vanished off the face of the earth. The story said the gang he broke up was a hard one, and grudging in their wars. It was terrible for his loved ones for there was no body to be found...and yet one is almost used to that sorrow. What are you going to do when someone melts under that black muck? It's not as if you can go dig them up. You'd have to drain the fens first...and even then, you'd have to know which area to drain.

"I confess I was thinking of poor PC Peake more than Allgood—Allgood who was still alive as far as I knew... Peake was more than a murder victim to us. He was also an...an emblem of the wrongs of the world. He was a symbol of what could happen to any of us and he was certainly a cautionary tale, for you couldn't be too careful. For all anyone knew, he might not have been murdered at all...he might have just...lost his way. Followed his own 'Wisp into the reeds. No one knew, as there was no one alive who was willing to speak.

"But after a while, I forgot all about my fellow coppers. It was deathly silent underneath the hum of the rushes. There was another sound that slowly caught my ear. It was a funny, peculiar sound...like a sucking, or pulling, and that tickling sound water makes when it's just barely running mixed with it, and as I was sitting and listening, I could hear the reeds suddenly brushing against themselves. It's a strange enough sound when you can see it happening...sort of what dry straws would sound like if mixed with green shingle...or if you took stalks of still-drying corn and rubbed them together. It's a _whispery_ sort of noise, and the more of them rubbing against each other, the...the deeper the sound goes, the deeper the sound travels. If you aren't ready for it...you can imagine you're hearing murmuring. Whispering. Things like soft little words inside your ear, trying to get your attention, trying to get you to look this way...or that way...you'll convince yourself in ghosts before long enough, gentlemen! Even when you do know what the sound is! It's a tricksy sort of sound, as the old gentlemen say at the pub. Who knows if that's not why people swear they can hear the old monks still chanting at the Spinney Abbey, centuries after they've all gone to their reward?

"It's inevitable, it is. Every so often, they'll dig up a relic of the deep past in the fens...When my father was a boy he helped pull up a warship left behind by the Danes. They were on their way to some war up the north, but they didn't pay the people who lived here enough to guide them. They took a few of the men as hostage, story goes, and the hostages melted away into nothing. The Danes' ship caught in the whispering reeds, then they got out to pull it out, and one by one, each man went down into the black waters, never to be seen again for hundreds upon hundreds of years. They found the ship, but they only found one of the men—and he was as well kept as a fresh burial. The rest of the men were still there, somewhere in the deeps, covered up by known layers of the fen. It's impossible to not know this once you've heard it. A story like this, it joins your very marrow and becomes a part of you for the rest of your life.

"And that, gentlemen, is when your imagination is in control of you. After that point, you start listening for the other spook-stories, and when you've decided you've heard the dead whispering in the fens, well, the Black Shuck isn't far behind."

Hopkins did the unexpected thing, and stopped talking for a minute. He appeared lost in thought—his usual expression when he was assembling facts in his head for recitation.

"I probably don't need to mention the Black Shuck at all. He sounds a lot like the Hound of the Baskervilles, just that he probably has webbed paws from walking in the muck. His eyes burn red as lamps, and his teeth drip froth, and if you hear him it's unlucky enough, but if you are so poor as to see his eyes dead-on, you'll be dead yourself before you know it. People never heard him howl, as I recall. They never heard him make sounds like other dogs, for he's not a dog at all, just a guise of one...but you could hear him squelching his way through the muck, step by step by step.

"And if you were going to imagine the sounds of a giant, coal-black, red-lanterns-for-eyes devil dog mumbling through a thick, sticky, black mire of a wet fenlands, it would be exactly like the sounds I was hearing."

It was quite possible that they could have heard Lestrade drop his needle this time, but Lestrade had stopped stitching, and was hanging on Hopkins' every word as much as everyone else. Bradstreet had quite forgotten he had a lit pipe in his hands, and Gregson was scorching the tea because he wasn't stirring the bottom.

"Making matters worse, the natural current of the channel was taking me straight to that sound."

Hopkins spoke wryly, his gaze turned inward to the personal space that was full of quiet reflection. "I had nothing to do but to allow things to happen. So I put my new bull's-eye on the prow in the hopes that I could see whatever it was, and I stood upright, keeping my pole in my two hands. I didn't have to steer at all, for the current was just strong enough that it was keeping me in the middle of the current. I'll confess to you, gentlemen, I was nervous, but at the same time, I was far, far more terrified that I was going to shame myself on the eve of my first day as a Constable!"

Everyone nodded. Fear was one thing—shame was quite another.

"I had no means of checking the time, and you can't her the church-bells when you're thick in the reeds, but I guessed I was floating a good quarter-hour in the heart of the channel. It was a cut made for the larger craft—people taking their flat-bottomed boats and their supplies to the other side of the lowlands with market supplies. There are fine road-ways cut in the Fens, so long as they're kept up! My boat was small enough that I was floating right along, faster than I would have done in a smaller cut...and not a sound. The water was drifting me along like a leaf, and the shisking whisper of the reeds grew louder and louder, and the heavy, sucking whispering squelching grew closer and closer.

"I can't claim to be clever, but I was almost at the source of the sound when I recognized it for what it was—the reeds and the air had muffled the true nature of the business. Someone was looting the eel-pots of his neighbors.

"It's a low enough thing to do, but even lower when you consider half the families are scanty in menfolk. It's common for the Hopkins to be large on females and short on men, but the whole area had been living rough for three generations. Wars, disease, and the need to find work in the cities had pulled so many of the men off, and only men can haul the traps. That's tradition, I suppose, but no one questioned it. So whoever was taking eels was doing it with full knowledge he was stealing food from one of the few men around.

"I was too angry to think about more than the speech I was composing in my head—when the current bumped me gently around a slow curve and there I was on top of them. Four men, and I knew 'em all. They were the Cottons—four brothers who never were that sterling on a given day, rough and mean and stingy to boot. Four of them, and each one was twice my size in each direction! But all I could see were four pairs of eye-whites caught round and stark in dirty faces and dirtier clothes. Their stolen eels were right there before them, and I could see some wickedly sharp hooks in their grubby hands.

"They'd noticed my light in the reeds and fallen quiet, thinking maybe it was a 'Wisp, but instead of it going on by, the light had come right to them, and what was on the other side of that light, but a helmetless Bobby, gripping a pole in his two hands like some bloody Charon! I can't even do justice to the screams that tore through the night. It would have been amusing, but what happened next wasn't amusing at all.

"They lost their heads. They left the safety of their boat and plunged into the reeds. I could hear them screaming for PC Allgood, screaming for him to give them mercy, that they were sorry. That's when I realised they were the reason why Allgood was dying in a hospital bed miles away. He'd come across their looting, and they'd decided to take care of it their own way."

Bradstreet sucked in his breath, wincing at the vivid statement. Gregson remembered to stir the tea-leaves off the bottom of his pot, barely in time. Lestrade had finished sewing. He slipped his needle back in his sleeve and leaned his chin in the heel of his hand, his face frowning with concentration. He didn't look at all amused; he looked like he had a good idea what was going to happen next.

"I didn't have much choice. The boat was close enough to dry land, so I lashed the crafts together, and hopped off. The men could have saved themselves if they'd ran straight away from me, but in their panic, I think they were no better than rabbits. The Constabulary found one of them late that following morning, more dead than alive. He confessed to their part in Allgood's attack.

"We never did find the other three. It was a good mark on my record, and it put me in too-perfect standing for the longest time, but I took no joy in that first night I wore the uniform. It was their own guilty consciences that sent three men off to their deaths, and one man will spend the rest of his life in jail. Possibly, I think, because the case was taken to London and some people imagine the other three had escaped, and the one remaining Cotton was there to take their blame. But back home, we all knew better.

"As for me, I was a changed man. Things just couldn't frighten me the way they did when I was little. All those hours of being alone in that whispering water burned it all out of me. I'd take any beat they offered me, even if it meant graveyards, or murder sites, or places of ruin...it mattered no more than a stroll through a flowered meadow. The officers noticed if I didn't. And it wasn't too long before I was asked to consider testing further up, that a man with nerve was always needed. My family had decided to move to London for better prospects, and why not? I moved my prospects with theirs. One thing led to another, and here I am."

Hopkins beamed at them all, and held his flask aloft. "Now I've told mine...who wants to be next?"


	6. The Coffin Train

In the rain-clad silence that followed Hopkins' challenge, a calmer voice prevailed. Gregson's.

"You can stop to think that over, you know. Take your time."

"Thank you, sir." Murcher was too old to be blindly respectful to his younger superiors. His patience was one of his many good qualities. "We'll puzzle it over a bit before we give our answer...and we'll need that bit of time to make sure the next story that follows Mr. Hopkins' does it justice."

"Take your time." Gregson repeated. Being gruff was the best way to give orders to men who were older and well-seasoned, and yet lower in rank than oneself. "Chat it over amongst yourselves; we won't cheat by listening in. We're in for a long night, and none of us, not even myself, is going to bed tonight until it's in _dry clothing_ and a _dry bed._"

Thoughts of going without sleep might have been saddening, but the thoughts of being dry more than made up for it. Faces cleared into hopeful complexions at the thought.

"I need to stretch my legs a bit—at least the good one." Gregson climbed to his feet with perilous balance, and gripped one of the pillars for support. "Johns, if you wouldn't mind watching the tea?"

"Yes, sir." Johns was happy enough to put his hands anywhere near a warm flame. Behind him, Greenwood was patiently snuffing out, trimming, and re-lighting the fast-sputtering rushlights. This work improved the poor quality of the illumination...at least for a while.

"We need more water to fill up the pot," Bradstreet noted. "I'll get it." He ambled to the door, carefully pried it open, and set the washed pot out away from the roof. The rain banged like nails into the bottom of the iron pot, but soon swallowed itself up in water. It would be full in less than twenty minutes.

Lestrade remained where he was, which wasn't too far from Hopkins. His usual (and often noted) restlessness had overwhelmed his brief calm spell. He was now sewing up Hopkins' torn trouser-leg where the collision against the stone had scraped up more than his flesh. Hopkins was wearing an expression of patient fortitude upon the attention. Some men might be taken aback, or at least alarmed to find their foot in the lap of another man, half an inch below a wicked-looked needle, but if Hopkins hadn't just proven he was made of stern stuff, his unflappable expression upon his new situation would have proven it twenty times over.

"You'd think he would know how to sew, if he grew up in a house of women." Gregson gnawed on a thumbnail.

"Are you barmy? _Those_ women aren't keen on letting any man doing something they can do. I've met them."

"Aren't you lucky," Gregson said to Bradstreet. He limped to the edge of the back wall, and Bradstreet found him a long, twisted up length of something that might have been a tree root. It was scrawny in breadth, but dense as metal and rock hard. It took his weight easily.

"Looks like part of a twisty old bush, probably over a hundred years old. They were saving it for the roof-repairs, so I'm betting it's strong enough for your weight."

"Huh. So say you." Gregson perused it but decided it would do. "Getting to civilisation tomorrow might be a bit interesting." he muttered. "Hopkins and I are both crippled enough that _Lestrade_ could beat us in a race...and McAdams is coughing like a miner."

Bradstreet had long experience in Gregson's skill in digging at Lestrade, but tonight he had to force his mouth shut. Lestrade was almost inhumanly agile, with a sense of balance learnt the hard way from his imperfect body. He could manoeuvre over uneven terrain like a goat, or a serpentine sewer like a rat, but put him out in the open? Even Watson could beat him in a short race. It was a shame because had he not been limited by his twisted left foot, he would be as quick as anyone. Bradstreet hated to see his friend forced to move quickly; it was like looking at a hawk struggling with a broken wing. Lestrade knew it and never even _tried_ to run even when he was in deep peril. He tended to just stubbornly stand his suicidal ground even if he was likely to be sliced to ribbons. He would never get over his private shame...as if it were his fault to be born that way...not to mention be mutilated in the same foot by sadistic older brothers.

_Well, shame never has to make sense. It goes right on merrily by that requirement..._

Gregson enjoyed taunting Lestrade so much it was little wonder he found this small reversal of fortune intolerable. Bradstreet found himself doing something he rarely did: he prayed for strength to come.

Gregson was muttering under his breath as he examined his collection of candle-stubs. Like all the seasoned men, he owned at least two forms of light—three if he had a bull's-eye.

"Hah, listen to the men." The tow-headed Yarder chuckled.

Bradstreet peered with his ears, wondering what had gotten Gregson into such a good mood so quickly. It appeared that they were debating who would go on on basis of merit:

"_If it's facts we're telling, you ought to be the first. You could watch a corpse come back to life and still put the whole station to sleep with your recitation of the facts."_

"_Oh, shut your gob! I'm methodical!"_

"_That you are. Plodding methodical."_

"_Well we can toss a few dice for the winning number, or we can decide it with a quick contest..."_

"_Oh, gorblimey, not one of your contests!" (That was Johns moaning.) "Please, not one of Greenwood's story contests. He has _rules_ and you have to stick to 'em! What'd it be this time—'Tales of Terror from Ireland in Less than Twenty Words?"_

"_They went to the pub...and there was nothing left." Greenwood rattled off, then paused, counting the words in his head. "**Ten** words. Top that."1_

"_Swear to the Good Lord Harry, I'll wring your sweaty thick neck for that one." Johns lifted a warning fist. "I swear. There's a place in hell for wags like you."_

"_Aye, _they_ get box seats."_

"Good Lord, we'll be here all night with just the arguing." Bradstreet was amazed.

"At least we'll not want for entertainment."

"No, but we might suffer a surplus of it..."

Lestrade had finished stitching up Hopkins' wounds to the wardrobe and hopped to his feet, returning his sewing kit up his sleeve with the same motion. Bradstreet suddenly sucked in his breath. Gregson looked at him in concern.

"Nothing...I think I just realised how Lestrade got out of that locked cell in Plymouth."

"Eh? _What_ locked cell?"

"er...later." Bradstreet promised hastily, which left his companion with a face like one of the thunderclouds outside.

"_That'd_ better be one of the stories I hear tunnite, you bumbling Red Robin." Gregson promised in dangerous tones as Lestrade made his way over to their side.

"What would that be?" Lestrade wondered.

"Nothing...at least not yet." Bradstreet rubbed his hands together, frowning at the lingering damp upon his skin. "Heavens, I'll be glad when we're all dry. Are you certain there's enough peat?"

"We could be here a week and we'd still be well set." Lestrade sniffed. "You would know better than this one-" He nodded imperiously to Gregson. "-didn't you used to cut it?"

"In a portion of my life I'd care to forget, thank you."

"Hmph." Lestrade had lit his small pipe from the peat at the pit. No one was foolish enough to kill one of their precious matches or tapers on a puff of tobacco when fire was burning somewhere. He tilted his head back, holding his breath, and slowly exhaled smoke through his nostrils, eyes half-shut as he contemplated the dauncy shades and shadows in the underside of the thatch. The stone section of the roof was a dizzying exhibit of spiraling overlap slate. Or what they secretly hoped was slate...the notion of something as heavy as granite over their heads would make for sorry sleep.

"I hope the rain doesn't overwhelm the roof." Bradstreet confessed. "My grandfathers both complained that people didn't know how to put a roof on in these modern times. I don't know but this is both stone and thatch...wonder why? It's odd."

"I'm guessing this is one of the old ruins, and it was mostly a stone roof, and they thatched over the rest when they ran out of stone?" Lestrade hedged. "I'm no builder, mind you, but I don't see a spare scrap of stone anywhere in this place. It was meant to last, and I suppose it had to last well more than most if it catches storms like this more than once a year!"

Bradstreet chuckled softly. "Right there. Reminds me of up north, you know. All it needs is a few fishing-nets hanging off the edges, and a few of the glass."

"Maybe a witch's glass too." Lestrade grinned as if something had amused him.

"A what?" Gregson frowned, because not knowing something upset him.

"Witch-glass." Lestrade repeated.

"I have no idear what you're babbling about."

"You don't?" Lestrade gave Gregson a long look. "Well." He said at last. "An old country superstition. Just as well you're shot of it." And he returned to his pipe with a tight-lipped silence.

….. ….. ….. …..

The rain-pot had filled and, proving again his impervious countenance, Murcher had donned a spare waterproof and walked out with the strongest bull's-eye. There was a midden less than twenty steps behind their shelter, he reported. There was even a running stream in a stone basin for those who wanted to wash clean.

"Cleaner than a night like this?" Gregson lifted his blue gaze to Heaven, got nothing more than a surly attitude of cloud-grumble in response, and approved of Murcher's escort services so they could all clean up (meaning, of course, take advantage of the barely-above-thawing water so they could get the bits and pieces of Dartmoor off their skin. Dartmoor didn't bear long explanations...when you got down to it, the whole place was full of tiny bits, like crumbled tea leaves that stuck to your skin, clothes, and got in your hair).

The good news was it was extra space, _and it was water-tight._ They carried the bulkier wet clothing (meaning all the coats) to the little building and hung them all up, so they could slowly drip out their moisture without adding to the damp atmosphere in their sleeping quarters.

Bradstreet went out with Murcher, and went back with a terribly annoyed expression. Lestrade waited till they were alone with stacking peat bricks before he asked him what the devil was wrong.

"There's _another_ wall of peat in there," the Runner told him.

"I don't understand why that's such bad news."

"It's not bad news, far from it! It's just...the _wrong_ sort of good news, Geoffrey. Why would there be _this much_ peat staying dry in the middle of nothing and nowhere?"

"You're talking to someone who grew up in the savage wilderness of _Plymouth_. I'm no expert in this. You'd've had to ask my mamm for an answer, and even then, you'd be hoping for a straight-forward answer."

"I find it hard to believe that any mother of yours _wouldn't_ be straight-forward."

"Flattery, Roger..."

"Well you had to get it from somebody, right?"

"Huh." Lestrade snorted with one of his strange half-laughs that somehow gave you the impression he was laughing at himself.

_It is not easy to be the man's friend,_ Bradstreet thought (again) wearily. Too many ghosts got in the way of easy camaraderie.

_Still...they're ghosts he fights. He doesn't keep them because he actually wants them._

Bradstreet had plenty ghosts of his own, so criticism was out of the place.

….. ….. ….. …..

Greenwood finally cleared his throat. "My story's so short, I thought I might as well give mine, and let the better stories have their way."

"Shorter than '_Irish Tales of Terror?'_" Bourne asked innocently.

"You're a wag." Greenwood shot back without a blink. "But it is a short one." He took a deep breath, gathering his composure as they all poured off more tea from Gregson's treasured pot.

"I'm not surprised by the dead, you know. Wasn't even before I joined the Army. Got to say, I see more frenzy now that I'm wearing the blue, than I ever did when I was working under the Queen's Shilling." He smiled a little, which cracked some of the deep lines in his dark face. "Because of that, I could get cheap rooms. I didn't concern myself much about the history of where I was sleepin'...the dead can't hurt you, can they? So it didn't bother me that one of the reasons why I had such a cheap room...was that it was right along the line for the LNC!"

Hopkins nearly swallowed his tea down the wrong way. "The London Necropolis?" He wiped his mouth after he finished coughing. "Well good heavens. You didn't lack for interesting people, did you?"

"That I didn't! The whole building was a boarding-house, down-track from the station, and the bottom was kept in reserve for people who wanted to stop and pay for a night's lodging on their way to Surrey. The owners'd had the foresight, as it were, to employ their advantage back in '52 when Parliament decided there was a problem with burying people in London."

"Hmn." Lestrade took in the fact that Greenwood's mates were hanging on his every word. Not all of them looked like they were hearing this story for the first time. They didn't look bored, either, so there was something interesting to this tale.

"I didn't tell anyone, because I felt it was nobody's business but my own, but I knew all about that line. My Papa had been one of the engineers, and he could come home every night, bee-stung with flying cinders, and once in a great while he would draw himself up to his full height and pretend to be one of the puffier representatives of the," Greenwood sucked in his breath, puffed out his chest, and placed one hand theatrically over his heart: "London Necropolis and National Mausolem Company, as Established by Special Act of Parliament." He wheezed in relief when it was over.

Radford roared with laughter. "Spot on!" he approved. "You've got the Sin of Vanity all over them! Fits like a glove!" As Radford was normally as talkative as the dead, this was a show of how the Company could get under a man's craw.

"I think they've gotten worse with time." Bourne was keeping busy by grooming his short mustache with a little comb. "I used to walk part of that beat...they never hesitated to tell you Brookwood was the largest cemetery the world had ever seen. 500 acres..." He chuckled at the folly. "Amazing that there can be vanity with the departed. You'd think they were beyond that."

"You would _hope_ they were beyond that." McAdams commented. He had stopped coughing for a quarter-hour, but his colour was high.

"Brookwood's a bit over twenty-five miles from the Waterloo terminus in central London. It's a different world to anyone who is more than a passenger, because if you're lucky, you won't have a need to ride that train too often! So people don't really notice the way it's set up. It has its private chapel (only mourners are allowed to go in), small mortuaries, even workshops for funerals so people know what to do and where to do it.

"I got my fill of that train-line, but when I was a young lad, it was a good place to make a bit of money. If you were clean and neat and courteous, you could get a good chance for earnings, because there are so many ways to get a gift of coins. When the deceased was a tight sort, his relatives often gave away their coins hand over fist in hopes they could make up for all the parsimony. Or the deceased was generous in life and chose to be so in death. Thank God it hardly ever ran more'n once a day! My old papa, he said in its first twenty years, he counted over 64,000 deceased taken from the 121 Westminster Bridge Station for the hour's ride down the L&SWR's main to the Brookwood cemetery. I believed him then, and I believe him now. I grew up to the sound of the departed's name call, and when the coffin and its mourners were taken care of, the train would go on down the line. It wasn't meant to be sad, but it was certainly busy!

"They say Death is the great spirit-level, but those funeral trains are as set up in class and religion as much as it is for the living...and you got what you paid for. First Class meant the people mourning you would do it in good style and high comfort to Brookwood...but Third Class, which I saw the most of, were the paupers and those poor folks who had to be buried at the behest of the parish. Either way, if you were a Nonconformist you went to graveyard's North Station, and Anglicans to the South Station. They have the biggest portion of the cemetery, believe you me! I know they tried to make it all orderly and easy to understand for the mournings, but I tell you, there were days that you were grateful that both stations had a licensed bar!"

At this, Lestrade's lip twitched sourly, which said clear as a bell to the other Inspectors that 1) Lestrade had been a visitor to both bars in the line of mourning, and 2) he held a low opinion of the refreshments, which meant 3) there was no cider or decent red wine.

"My first night in my new room went peaceful enough, because I was tired as a dog, but the second night, I had caught up. It's one of those tiny little rooms, big enough to live in—what you pay for. You don't need to pay for more, do you? I had a little shelf that stretched from floor to ceiling, and it was handy for the few books I would find from time to time. When I can't sleep, I read. And believe you me, there are night when I can't sleep."

At this point, the Constable stopped talking, thinking ahead to his story. The others waited patiently. "I'm not sure how this...how I can best tell this." He said slowly. "I'm not a gifted story-teller. But the fact is, the second night I was in my room, it was odd. The train went by my room, but something was different. I heard something heavy in my head, rap-rap-rapping. It started up a few seconds after the train sent the whole building to shake, and it didn't finish until the train was a low rumble in the distance. It was loud enough that it woke me up. I didn't like it. I hate being without me sleep! But the night after that nothing happened...or the next night after...but after that...the same thing happened. Rap...rap...rapping. And it was right under my feet! Only when the Coffin Train went by at night. That's a queer enough thing.

"I knew better than to get an answer out of the landlord. He was a hard crab of a man, with eyes like flint. But you'd have to be dull if you couldn't see how those same nights affected the other people in the building. They were always quiet, eyes down on their plates as we ate breakfast, and most of 'em didn't eat that much. The ones on my side of the rooms were the worst off.

"I put up with it for three weeks. Then I asked my next-door neighbor what was happening. "How is it, George?" I ast him. "Nothing at all, nothing at all," he said, pulling his head from side to side. "Naw, you can tell me." I pressed him. "I'm only here to find answers, you know...and it's not like my duty ever ends when I come home."

"It's just Old Glassman's Ghost." George blurted out. "That's all. You don't need to deal with that."

"Old Glassman?" I asked him back. "What do you mean?"

"Well he didn't want to answer, but after a time he did. It seems that the last tenant to my room had been an old Jew who'd stood on the street and sold heavy cast iron flat-pans to people at the station. It was a humble enough vocation, but he survived on it, and he barely lived for luxury. Word had it, he'd been through one of the wars on the Continent, so he didn't have any reason to live high on the pound.

"And yet one day, he'd died. The landlord had taken his remains out and out of charity, put him on the next train to Brookfield.

"Must have had unfinished business, and that's why he knocks when the train goes by," George said. "It's a shame, but there's nothing we can do. We paid for a priest to come in and everything." But the conversation wasn't to his taste, and he took his leave of me quick after that.

"I was puzzled. Why bring a priest when it's a Jew who died? Bein' a sprout who worked as a little errand boy on the train, I knew that people stuck to the same religion in death as they did in life. And the Jews were different in a lot of ways—enough that I started to get a bad feeling in the bottom of my belt-line. So I went around a bit, and to the files at the Yard, and I found a Rabbi who worked with us in the past. His name was Coffee, well, he said 'Coffee' was a close enough name for what I could call him, and his folk had lived in London, he said, a good long time."

At this point in the story, the Constable just stopped talking. He remained silent as the rain drummed harder and harder into the layers above their heads. The others paid an occasional glance upward, for even the sound of one man's voice can drive back the chilly sound of water...but there was still no fresh talking...and it looked like there would be no talking.

"I'm sorry." The young man said at last. "I want to make sure I tell this right. It's...it's difficult."

"Take your time." Gregson reassured him. His voice showed no impatience or patience, just a statement of fact.

"Yes, sir. Here's what I found. The Rabbi said that it was impossible for the old iron-peddlar to be haunting the room. He was a good soul who'd lived a good life, he said. His sort just didn't create haunts. Well, I didn't know what to think. Because my thought had been the poor man needed words from his own church, and who better than a Rabbi?

"Let me come with you if it makes you feel better," the old fellow said. I confess it was a little odd to walk down the street with him, for he was a funny little man dressed neat as a pin from head to toe. He was careful not to be accidentally touched by anyone, especially women, in the street but he was cheerful enough. I'll never forget that. He was a cheerful little man, with eyes so old they might have lived a hundred lifetimes.

"We went up to my room, and he took a good, long look about it. I don't know why, but he sniffed my room. Several times, pulling every breath of air into his lungs and letting it out bit by bit.

"'There are no restless souls here, my fellow,' he told me. And his eyes, I remember they stopped looking so bloody old when he said that. He was no different than my own grandfathers' when they were telling me there were no monsters under my bed at night.

"'But I'm not going mad,' I said. 'There are the sounds at night. I don't know what to make of them.'"

"'Then let's find out what the reason is,' he said. 'I said _he_ wasn't here...I didn't mean something else wasn't.'

"Gave me a chill, it did!"

Greenwood's audience agreed.

"We waited. The night was a night for the Coffin-Train, and Mr. Coffee was willing to sit up. He sat on the edge of the bed with his hands folded in his lap, neat as you please, and seemed to go to sleep. Me, I just made myself as comfortable as I could. And while I didn't mean to doze off...I did. And sure enough, the train went coming along by.

"That little Rabbi had his nerve, I tell you. As soon as the rapping started up again, he was on his knees on the floor, scrabbling about, ears on the boards trying to track down that sound! I thought he was mad, of course, then it hit me why he'd be doing that, and before you know it, we're both on the floor, ferreting out the source of the sound.

"My room was on the floor, and cornered to the railway. The rap-rap-rap stopped as soon as that little man put his hand down on a loose board. It stopped that quick. He looked at me, and I looked at him. He took off his hand, and rap-rap-rap came back.

"Do you have a crowbar?" He asked me as politely as you please.

"Better than that," I said, and stood up, and my heel came down on that board with all my weight. It snapped like a dry bone, and there wasn't no rock underneath the boards, no sir." Greenwood scowled at a memory that would always be fresh. "It was a hollow place, and the first thing we saw, wrapped up in mouldy cobwebs, was the handle of a black iron frying pan."

Greenwood stopped to take a breath for the next sentence, but they all knew what would follow.

"Mr. Glassman was buried right under the pan."

"Er, wait." Murcher timidly cleared his throat. "I thought one of the conditions of the stories tonight meant there wasn't anything ghostly about it."

"There isn't." Greenwood assured him. "I haven't finished with the story, yet, Harry."

"Well let the man finish before we aspirate!" Bourne exclaimed.

Greenwood chuckled quickly before returning to business. "The whole sorry business was wrapped up soon enough. Like many of the uneducated, my old Landlord thought poor Mr. Glassman was swimming in money. The floor of his building was getting et up with the insects and the rot, so he figured Mr. Glassman could pay for his own portion of the floor to get replaced. Well, naturally there was some hot words out of that suggestion! He took one of Mr. Glassman's pans to his head and that was that. Poor old skeleton was flat on that side-" Greenwood touched his left temple. "That foolishness left him a whole bloody twenty-two pounds richer-" His voice was thick with sarcasm, "and with a five hundred pound problem, if you can imagine. But there was still the problem of the body, so he wrapped it up in a rough carpet and buried it just below the surface of the earth. It was dry there, like a bloomin' cave, and the remains just dried up like one of those museum mummies. But just as he had everything all good and tight, he saw he'd forgotten the pan. He threw it down where it hit the foundation-pillar, and figgered no one would no the wiser once the floor was replaced.

"Thing was, he'd made a mistake, because the pan was tossed careless and wedged into a bit of stonework in the corner. A light train wasn't enough to shake the building much, but a heavy train could do plenty. The Coffin Train ran straight to Surrey past my room, and when it passed, it was heavy enough to shake and rattle, and make that pan knock against the foundation pillar. Barmiest set of co-incidences I've ever seen in my life! At least that's what I told that little Rabbi."

Greenwood stopped and shuddered from head to toe.

"What?" McAdams and Radford asked at the same time.

"Well, the Rabbi was pretty phil-o-sophical about it all. He was no stranger to death or how man can be cruel to another man. It was enough that he got permission to see to the last remains of Mr. Glassman, and he was courteous enough to stop by when it was all done so he could assure me everything had been taken care of. The other lodgers, well, they were feeling just a mite guilty about not caring—could have been them just as easy! So they all put up a few coppers to donate for the funeral. The landlord being deep in gaol, I was just paying my respects to his replacement—his own nephew—so we sat down at a little tea-shop by the Station, and traded up a bit of small talk."

Greenwood was holding his tea in both hands. He stared straight down into the dark rosy depths of it before he could speak again, and he didn't look up the whole time until his story was finished.

"That little fellow, that's _still_ the smartest man I've ever met. Wasn't the kind to show it off, so I guess you could add the wisdom of Solomon to his credential too. We still speak from time to time...he's a right help when there's a problem around involving his people. But he makes you think. He makes you think, even when thinking's the last thing you want to do.

"It was close to the end of our chat, and I was apologising for not knowing much about his people's ways...if I'd offended him by going on a ghost hunt without a ghost, I was most sorry.

"He smiled at me, all teeth from ear to ear under his ice-grey beard, and said no harm was done.

"'We do believe in ghosts, but not in the way you do. And it's one of my many duties to make certain no one gets lost or confused on their way from this world to the next.'

"'Is that why you were sniffing the air?' I asked.

"'Oh, not exactly...you see, the soul can't leave a room that's air-tight. And air-tight your room was not!' I laughed a bit at that, for it was true.

"'It's a waste and I'm sorry.' I told him. 'It plagues me that a poor old fellow would be killed for what little money he has...and yet, well, I'm not much of a church-goer...I usually have to work on Sundays...but it was just an odd thing that the killer set himself up by his own actions, to swing on the noose!"

"Not so very odd, my good fellow." Mr. Coffee smiled at me. "There's a law we have that I've been thinking of. It goes, if you will permit me a poor translation...

"'When Tragedy is released, the Angel of Death sees not the difference between the innocent or the guilty.'"

"I must have turned white as milk, for he smiled again, and said, 'What happened was a tragedy, and tragedies have ways of begetting other tragedies. You kept it from growing.'"

Greenwood's voice trailed off as he stared into his undrunk tea.

"That's all," he finished. "Like I said, it wasn't a big story, but it had a lot in it...it's not easy to tell, for I still ask myself the same questions I always do. But I guess I always will."

Lestrade opened his mouth to say something but a fresh crack of thunder cut them all off. The roll of thunder went on for what seemed to be forever. Rushlights guttered at the compression of new wind that pressed once, violently, about the hut and was gone as quickly as it had come.

"My Heavens." Hopkins said softly, his face pale.

"We'll take a short break before the next one." Gregson said—perhaps unnecessarily. No one was looking like they could just up and jump into the contest just yet.

….. ….. ….. …..

1An actual event, and I blame my brother in law for that atrocious witticism—The Author.


	7. Guilty, andor Innocent

McAdams started coughing in the silence. It was painful to listen to him—even more painful to see the way he hunched over himself.

"Twelve of the Yard's finest, and not a bloomin' medical bag." Bradstreet said under his breath.

"If we can't fix it with a whistle, brandy, set o' bracelets, a mug of tea, a lantern and a pompous air, it's probably not worth fixing." That unusual gibe was from Hopkins. The youngest Inspector was perched on a rolled lump of scavenged pony-skin with an expression slightly less pleasant than that of the clouds over their heads.

"Oh, my _word!_" Radford dropped his tea out of his hands as a terrific roll of thunder—worse than all the others, shattered the air. They felt the vibration in their very rib-bones. Everything—speech, blinking, movement, even breath—went halt as the heavens continued to bang away.

It said something about Radford's presence of mind that he caught the little metal cup before it hit the packed earth of the floor. With only a drop wasted, he clutched up the rescue in shaking hands and widened eyes.

He wasn't the only one.

"Got to be the worst one yet." Bourne was hushed with awe.

"We were just saying that, not a few minutes ago." PC Murcher tried to make a show of his pipe, but finally gave up and just pretended to polish the smooth wood in his large hands.

Gregson was struck with a very unsavoury image of their small shelter sliding off the slope and somewhere to the bottom of a cold and lightless chasm. Damned imagination. It did get in the way at times.

His leg was utterly murdering him.

It was maddeningly unfair that he had to be carrying around something that felt like dead weight part of the time...and then without warning, a spike of pain like a red-hot slate pencil would be pressing a very, very dull tip into the meat of his thigh, where (it would seem) a dark river of agony ran beneath the surface.

Considerate of his duty, Gregson mentally calculated how much of the brandy he had, and how much he had to spare if McAdams needed it. The answer was depressing no matter how many times he tried to rearrange the formulations: McAdams would need more help than brandy, and soon.

This was not a flight of fancy on his part, but the memory of experience. They had no medicines, no useful teas, nothing that could help except keep the man warm and dry...but if they were to find a road on the morning, they would have to get him out in it.

There was also the problem of Murcher seeing a supposedly dead man.

Gregson wasn't about to believe in a dead man walking until the dead man in question _not only_ came up to his face and produced credentials to the proof, but he would _also_ have to have a damned good explanation for his walking around among the living. Therefore, Murcher _didn't_ see a dead man, but he _did_ see someone _very like him_. That would mean another relative of George Christopher...and that was a bloody-minded gang on the best of days. Gregson had no idea what conspired in the world to produce that many horrendous acts of crime within one family, but he hoped it never happened to his.

Bugger all that.

If there was even a chance—the slightest of chances—that the remaining Christophers were behind that train wreck, then they would be taking advantage of the fact that all the Yarders were long hours away from the nearest village, or for that matter, any form of assistance. For all any of them knew, they had been lured up here for a quiet act of murder, and the storm was the only reason why they were all alive.

Gregson was not a drinking man—he felt a strong one would be nice right now.

Bradstreet shuffled up behind him. "I need a third hand for this," he complained. "Can you hold up the lamp so's I can see to pull the decent ones out? We're going to need a lot of help to sleep through the night."

"Decent? Are some of the skins off?"

"Some of them are pretty well holed. They'd be useful as scraps or cut up for small pieces. I just don't want the men to fall asleep dry and wake up damp." They stumbled into the back room, and Bradstreet growled and complained under his thick mustaches. "There we go. And we'll need some for us..."

Gregson obliged Bradstreet by hovering the lantern with one hand. Bradstreet hummed absently as he worked, and tossed a rejected specimen to a separate pile.

"I think Walters is next."

"Good." Gregson yawned. A moment later, his eyes snapped open. "Did you say Walters?"

"That's what I said."

"_Walters_ wants to talk?"

"That's what he says."

"How bloody amazing is that?"

He swears it's something that _you'll_ appreciate, Gregson."

"Now that's alarming." Gregson cocked an eyebrow skyward.

"Oh, come on. He isn't that short on words."

"You're right. Just yesterday I heard him give seven words to Murcher: 'Would you please pass the salt here?'"

Bradstreet chuckled under his breath. "No...I know. Baynes made a point of congratulating us for accepting him...said it might take two years before he learned to really talk to people, but I think he's coming along all right."

"Gregson..._Tobias_." Bradstreet rarely used any man's Christian name, but he did it now. It got the other man's attention. "Two down, ten more to go. I'm hopeful this is what we need."

"I don't follow you?"

"Two recollections where it looked like it was going to turn into a ghost story...but it didn't. That's two stories where we have the story solved by man, and not by any wandering spirit or ghost. That's going to be good for the men in the long run."

Gregson thought it over, and nodded. It was so bloody easy to fall victim to fears...Hopkins had done them a favour by setting his little precedent. Greenwood had followed. Now to see the next offering for the fire.

"We'll need to make certain the Constables are closer to the fire than we are tonight." Bradstreet added. "They were bloody soaked in those heavy coats. Radford just told Bourne his head is still fuzzy."

"Right." Gregson took a deep breath.

"You just make sure you're close to the fire as they are. You can keep the peat burning as well as anyone, but I don't think those lads know a brick of peat from a ruddy mud pie in their nieces' tea parties."

Gregson tried hard not to laugh at that image. "All right, then, I'll stick by the warm while you shudder in the cold." Privately, he was annoyed and grateful that Bradstreet had given him a responsible reason for being by the fire all night. His hands were finally starting like they belonged to him again. As far as his feet...well...his feet might join the lands of the living in a few more hours.

"Hopkins and I are going to kip in the back-" Bradstreet jerked with his head. Like most coppers, he didn't like to point with his fingers. "It is a bit coolish, but it's dry and I can handle it cool if it's dry."

"All right, I've no problems with that." Gregson wondered where this was headed.

"Lestrade's taking the spot by the door."

"Whatever for?"

"He said he'd take it."

Gregson was wordless for almost twenty seconds. "What's going on?"

"You know Lestrade. He's not happy in the country."

"This isn't the country. This is _Dartmoor_."

"I _know_ what you mean, Tobias. Dartmoor is like...like another country. Created by poets." Bradstreet waved a free hand at something vague. "This is one of the wildest, most beautiful places in all of Britain, maybe even the world...but it's not a place where a man can imagine himself to be supreme and in control. He'll die from a mis-step, or lose his heart to this land before he'll ever master this place."

"Right, but Lestrade knows it more than we do, seein' as how he's been here the most."

"Aye, but not because he really wants too." Bradstreet was using his version of logic.

"What's really wrong, Bradstreet?" Gregson whispered.

Bradstreet looked relieved that it was out. "Lestrade's acting funny again."

Gregson hadn't noticed, but he wasn't going to admit he wasn't paying attention to anyone about anything. "Then you know how it is. Something's got him off...and he'll act off until it's all sorted out."

Bradstreet's lips went razor-thin. He didn't like it, but they both knew Gregson was telling the truth. Even if they thought they knew what the problem was...speaking would make it all worse.

"Gregson...I don't know what Lestrade's story will be tonight...I don't know if he will even give a story. But if he doesn't, don't press him. I'm asking you."

Bradstreet asked for help twice as often as he called Gregson, Tobias. It made the light-haired man frown in bewilderment.

"What're you on about?" He asked bluntly. "What do you think is the problem?"

"The problem is, I'm afraid some of these stories are going to be too close to the mark."

With that said, Bradstreet walked away.

He left Gregson with the lamp, his tobacco, and the silence...but none the wiser for the conversation.

….. ….. ….. …..

"We're having trouble keeping awake, so perhaps one more tale for the night?"

"Perhaps by then, we'll have dry enough clothing for sleeping" Gregson hoped. "Well, Walters? Are you still willing to have a go at this?"

"Willing enough, sir." Walters smiled a little shyly. He was talkative enough, but mostly with his fellow Constables. There was something rather hesitant about the way he spoke to the detectives.

"Well, everyone can settle themselves. Lestrade's going to stand watch by the door tonight, so if anyone needs anything, they'll know to speak to him."

Lestrade nodded curtly at this endorsement (Gregson assigning him extra work was nothing new), and he said nothing. He had no actual bed, but was sitting on a single skin with a roll of felt folded into a sort of a backrest.

"I can't tell very long stories, and this one shouldn't be told long, but it's one of the last cases I was in before I moved to London."

They had mostly given up on the tea, not wanting its further stimulation. Walters was a tall Bobby, seasoned and rather handsome but unaware of it. In his spare time they knew him for a reader who liked to collect oddities and charts.

"Surrey's quiet for the most part. I know that isn't to the tastes of some people, but quiet doesn't always mean boring. People with money like to retire in Surrey. I'm always surprised at the number of people who come over right from London. For some reason, they stick to the side of Surrey that has all the London Clay! Maybe it feels like home? But I grew up between the chalk cliffs, and my old grandparents had the raising of me, God love them for the saints they were! Dad was long killed in the seas and Mum had the consumption before he crossed over. My grandparents on both sides were strong in the Church, and they thought nothing of ah...well...thinking of my name to volunteer when a new dig was going up in the search for King Canute, or something to do with King Frithuric..."

Walters stopped and a surprised expression crossed his lean face. "And I can scarce believe I remembered those names."

Murcher snorted loudly. McAdams couldn't laugh, but he grinned from ear to ear, and Harding spoke as he passed Radford a drop of brandy: "I suppose it's part of growing up, eh?"

"I suppose so, but you'll mind I said my elders were all in the church. What I was really doing was following the orders of the men in charge, but if it looked like human remains were close, I'd be expected to slip word to the chapel. A lot of those diggers didn't care what they were doing, and it was criminal how they'd just toss bones of men and women in a pile off to the side. I know some of the men said it didn't matter, because they weren't Christians, but that was as good as a dare to get the old sexton up and flaming!"

"You were a spy, eh? Oh, I like that!" Gregson approved heartily. "Probably kept a few men from taking home things they shouldn't."

Walters shrugged. "Odd how some people never pay a bit of attention to a lad in a hole in the ground."

"You'd've been just the sort Mr. Holmes would have recruited for his little gang off Baker Street." Hopkins smirked.

Walters looked pleased at this endorsement, but cleared his throat and set to the story.

"I'd worked with Mr. Baynes a few years and gotten myself a bit of a reputation for it's a bit difficult for me to get all bothered at dry old bones. They can bother many people, but they don't usually bother me. I get a bit stirred up if the bones are young'uns. If there was a bad time, I just saved it all for Church the next time I could get it in.

"Things were good enough until one day we had ourselves a suspicious death at a place called Wisteria Lodge. Mr. Baynes was called to that one double-quick! He likes himself a puzzle, he does. You may as well just step back and let him pass, or he'll just roll right over you. I've seen him do it!"

Hopkins saw Gregson made a peculiar face, as if he had some fond memories of Baynes doing exactly that, but he didn't want to admit to it. "Walters, is this the case where Mr. Holmes was brought in, and it wound up stretching all the way to Central America?" The youngest Yarder asked.

"Oh, yes."

"Well, tell us what happened!" Gregson leaned forward, even though it hurt his leg like the devil. "We got only half the story as it was...and it wasn't the informative half!"

"Too right." Murcher rumbled. "We were visitin' the station on our days off in hopes of news!" Lively interest glowed in the old copper's eyes. He was no different from the rest of the police, who were all quivering with attention at the chance for a scrap of news. "Was the cook really a devil worshipper?"

Walters' mouth hung open, suspended. "Well _I_ don't rightly know," he stammered. "All I've got is what I was told and what I saw."

"It's all right, let him talk." Hopkins lifted his hand. "That was a tangled case and a half!"

Walters shrugged helplessly. "For my part it was simple. Mr. Scott Eccles was a guest at the Wisteria Lodge, and he was invited by that Garcia fellow for a visit. If you've never met Mr. Eccles, you didn't have to. He was the most solid example of Englishman I ever saw in my life. There's men that your mum will show you in the vain hopes you'll be more like them some day...well, it didn't take but a second to see Mr. Eccles was solid, stocked, and sober. He had some queer ways about him, gents. He didn't seem like he liked the working man quite so much, but Mr. Baynes told me himself that he raised his family fortune up by the dint of his own efforts—and he didn't think much of private detectives-"

Behind Walters echoed the unmistakeable sound of one Inspector Lestrade, Scotland Yard (Second Class 1880), violently parting ways with a swallow of brandy.

Gregson was more in control, but his pale yellow eyebrows appeared permanently fastened to the high dome of his forehead. Bradstreet wondered if he knew his mouth was hanging ever-so-slightly open.

"Really." Hopkins marvelled as Lestrade choked in the background. "That's...that's interesting. We'd heard that he consulted with Mr. Holmes."

"Well, he did!" Walters was fast proving himself to be not the most methodical of story-tellers, but he was certainly in grip of a riveting style. "He stopped at Charing Cross and sent a wire to Mr. Holmes at about 1pm following the murder of Mr. Garcia, and was at Baker Street after 2. Mr. Baynes tracked him by the telegram, and it was there he'd found Mr. Gregson-"

"And I agreed to take him to Mr. Holmes." Gregson filled in. His light blue eyes were twinkling. Something was tickling his very fancy, and he was enjoying himself immensely. "Quite a set-up, it was. Something out of one of those high theatres."

"Yes, sir, it was! So Mr. Baynes, he'd already examined the evidence, which was mostly what was left of Mr. Garcia, figured Mr. Eccles _probably_ didn't kill Mr. Garcia—he didn't think the man could kill anything other than time! But he always treats a fellow like they're guilty anyway. He says if you press 'em, they'll give up information they never knew they had."

"Among other things." Gregson said under his breath.

"So at any rate, Mr. Baynes questioned Mr. Eccles at Mr. Holmes' rooms, and returned to Surrey without fuss. We had learned it was a small household—Mr. Garcia, his manservant called Timon, and a strange cook, a half-breed he'd picked up but whose skills were supposed to be remarkable. I'll confess I won't argue with that...he truly was remarkable.

"When we'd searched over the house, I assure you we went over every inch. Mr. Baynes isn't satisfied with just one person looking at a scene. He wants to look at it, and ask you what you've noticed as well. He writes it all down for backup, calls it a handy way of catching someone in a lie later. Mr. Garcia's rooms and Timon's were quite boring, for there was nothing in them that we could find that was of interest. Mr. Baynes was terribly disappointed at first, for he felt that everyone has something of interest in their lives, but after some time he murmured that a boring life was rather more uncommon than people might think, and it was strange that a man who was so interesting in person would be so very un-interesting in his own rooms. After that we got a halloo from downstairs; Joseph had been going through the kitchen and had of course, the shock of his life.

"The kitchen was a wreck of a place. Like the whole house, it had seen better days—better years! It ran between being scrupulously neat and tidy, and messy. The cook was one of those old-fashioned sorts that insist on killing their own animals for the pot, but he was doing other things besides kill animals for the pot..! There was a large white rooster, dead as could be and torn to shreds, a bucket of blood, bones from some animal burned up in the fire until they looked more like charcoal, and some sort of mummy...It didn't look human or animal, but something in between. Mr. Baynes studied that thing for a long time, almost five minutes—for him that's a very long time, for he thinks very quickly. None of us could ever hope to keep up with him.

"'Interesting," he said to himself. He talks more when he's around us...and Joseph asked him if it were proper to get rid of the mess.

"'No, not at all, Constable," he said and he stroked his chin the way he does when he's doin' some hard thinking. "We shouldn't get rid of evidence, especially the valuable evidence.'

"'Valuable, sir?" Joseph asked. "This?'

"'Of course." Mr. Baynes started chuckling under his breath. "It doesn't look like much to you, does it?

"'No, sir, I'm sorry sir.'

"'Don't be, Joseph. Things of value take on many forms. Some of them are just more pleasing to the eye.' He told us to leave the kitchen just the way we found it, and to carry on. I drew the lot and it was my job to sit up and watch the house.

"Mr. Baynes is clever, but he's even more clever because he doesn't show off until the end of a case. Makes it hard to work with him because we all get a little nervous with worryin' we're doing something he doesn't want us to do! But his instructions to stay up were clear enough and common enough, and I was sitting down by the chair. There was still a bit of light left and the newspaper was still good, so I thought I'd check over the news as I waited. But it wasn't long after I sat down that I felt like looking up, and got the shock of my life.

"I swear I thought it was the face of the devil in the window. It was great big, with jagged teeth, and large, staring eyes. The hands frightened me more than the face—they were huge, the biggest hands I'd ever seen, and I cried out from the shock. Can't deny it. As fast as I said a word, that awful visage was gone and I was left shakin' like a toddler! I stayed like that until long after dark, when Mr. Baynes came in with Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson."

_Uh, oh._ Gregson thought. Behind the unknowing Walters, Lestrade grimaced and placed a hand upon his forehead as if it were aching. It probably was, in sympathy.

"Mr. Baynes knocked on the window to let me know they'd come, and I thought I was going to have a heart attack. There's no sense in even pretending to lie about your thoughts around Mr. Baynes. He might not like it if you aren't up to his standards, but he likes it even less if you aren't truthful. Best as I could, I explained that I was caught reading in a chair when I looked up and saw the face of the Devil."

"Oh." Bradstreet said softly. "I imagine Mr. Holmes took that quite well."

"He didn't say anything, not yet. It was all Mr. Baynes doing the talking."

_No surprise there,_ Lestrade thought.

"Mr. Holmes proved that a man—and a big one—had been through the bushes and peered through the window, said he had to be big if he were a size twelve...and then once we were all inside Mr. Baynes led them to the kitchen where all that mess was still resting.

"I'll admit, I wouldn't know what to make of any of it, but Mr. Holmes looked pleased as punch to have something new and interesting. Dr. Watson was tryin' to find out if the mummy was human or monkey—I don't know if he ever decided that, but the way he was scowling while he figgered, made me glad I was never one of his puzzles to solve!"

"Oh, true." Hopkins looked skyward. "Very true. Mr. Holmes just chases his puzzles down. Dr. Watson beats his until they're too tired to fight him anymore."

Lestrade had to hide his snicker at that observation. Hopkins was quite right on all accounts.

"Mr. Baynes had us keep the guard up at the house, and sure enough, the cook was back to get his strange things. My Lord, if the man wasn't even bigger the second time I saw him! It took all of us everything in our power to hold him down, and my mate, Downing, nearly lost a thumb to the man's teeth. None of us escaped the man's strength! When we finally got him in the cell and the door locked, he set up a howling like a wild animal and hard as it was to hear, we had to feel some pity for the brute who half killed us. He was truly lost and confused. More frightened of us than we were of him—and we were frightened enough!

"Mr. Baynes came to see him as soon as we sent him the word, and he did his best to talk with the man, but got nothing but a few words. At the end of it, he left with one of his very thoughtful looks, and told us that if anyone asked, we had the killer of Mr. Garcia in custody.

"'He's strong enough for it, sir.' Downing agreed. The doctor had set him up with bandages and more rum than I'd seen in a month. 'Shall we finish our duties at the Lodge?"

"'No, Downing. There's still the matter of missing property, and I dislike leaving loose ends.'

"Well, we didn't know what he meant by that, but it's no sense in fussing with Mr. Baynes! The next day Mr. Holmes himself came to talk, blame me if he didn't try to get Mr. Baynes to think he was doing the wrong thing. But Mr. Baynes wouldn't give an inch." Walters rubbed his forehead at the old memory.

"If I recall correctly," Lestrade spoke up for the first time, "Mr. Baynes kept the cook arrested so that the real killers would think themselves safe. The hostage in question managed to get away, but then so did the killers."

"The Tiger of San Pedro did, and it was an abashment to Crown Justice." Gregson agreed. "It was a close thing all over."

"Yes, gentlemen, it was very close." Walters took a deep breath. "It's a case I can't forget. It...it sticks too close. Mr. Garcia's other companion was Timon the housekeeper, and he was eventually rousted up at the port and reunited with his friend. The two were a bit emotional, for I expect it was the shock of everything they'd endured. They were, after all, out of a friend and benefactor in Mr. Garcia. Signora Durando asked if they would join her house, small as it was, and they agreed to the terms. It was the last I saw of the three, but I still think of them from time to time.

"The Signora claimed the weather taxed her health after her time in the tropics, so when the weather cleared they sailed for the Canary Islands. It seemed strange to me that they would go there, of all places, but I was distracted because I had a chance to transfer to London, and I wanted to take it. Mr. Baynes was glad to speak for me, and I had my news at almost the same time Mr. Baynes got his news about Don Murillo's murder in Spain.

"We rode together, I for my new station, and Mr. Baynes with a clipping of the murdered Tiger and his secretary. He wanted to show it to Mr. Holmes in order to tie up loose ends. He's hard to understand, but a decent sort, but both of us were quiet on the train. Finally, I couldn't take it any more.

"'Sir, there's something about this that has me puzzled...and I don't like it.'

"'Nor should you like a puzzle, Walters. What would that be?'

"Is it possible that we let go three people who committed murder?"

"'It is always possible, Walters. No one is born guiltless into this world.' Mr. Baynes had his faraway look to his face when he said that. 'I am certainly guilty of obfuscating appearances in order to finish a case. But I never let go of a case. No, this was a pretty problem, and I was flippant when I said a woman was at the bottom of it as usual...I didn't know how true I was." He stroked his chin with one hand. "They were planning to murder a murderer, Walters. Everyone knows the least of the Tiger's crimes, and there would have been sympathy for the widow...but they were going to lure him to his death. That is hardly something you or I would approve of.'

"'No, sir. I don't approve of it at all.'

"'And yet, if all had gone well, we would have helped them in said act of murder. Things went against them in their plot, and still...we let them go. If they did not assist in Murillo's death, they certainly helped in some way. The Canaries are an interesting choice of a convalescence, and interestingly close to the Spanish society which they needed to infiltrate. I have faith in the law, Walters—more faith than do those who simply play in the role of assistance. There would have been a better outcome for everyone if they had only gone to us in the first place with their declarations. It would have been simple to verify the true identities of those men.'

"'What would have happened if we'd managed to catch them?'

"'Heh. It would have been a mess. I confess I had the cook arrested for his own protection as much as anything else. He was absolutely terrified of us white devils...from how they treat the peasants over there I'm sure he had reason to believe his death would be long and slow. But that's the mixture of fate, Walters. It was a mess to begin with, and had events played just a bit differently, we could have unraveled the whole knot. As it was, it was our sole honour to reveal the true identities of the players involved. What could we have done? Those people would never have stayed in England where they would be safer. No, they were determined to meet their fate with Murillo's. Perhaps we'll hear of it someday...but I doubt it.

"'I can't say I like not knowing, sir.' I confessed.

"'Which is why I joined the law myself, Walters. Is that what's been heavy in your mind all this time?"

"..No, sir. It's just...well, I'm ashamed that I forgot myself and saw the devil instead of a very large cook.'

"Mr. Baynes chuckled for a long time before he could talk again. 'That, Walters, is a common failing. We tend to go back to childhood when troubled. Next time, you need to remember that if the Devil _is_ going to walk the earth, he'll do it in human form. And if he does it in human form, he'll be locked up with the Derbies as tight as anyone else.'

"After this, he felt silent and said nothing more until we left the station, but for the rest of the trip, he was still laughing to himself. I don't know why the idea of arresting the Devil would be amusing, but it was to him...and as I said before, there's no use figuring out his thoughts. Never has been, never will."

_"Sounds more and more like someone else we know."_ Lestrade said under his breath.

_"Too right."_ Hopkins mouthed back.

….. ….. …..

Someone's tiny pocket-watch chimed a soft bell upon the hour. It was well past midnight and the only illumination upon the hut was that of the soft red glow of peat in the bottom of the firepit.

Bradstreet was big, but he could move without sound when he set his mind to it. Part of the skill was not being impatient. He waited carefully before placing one foot before the other, threading around the maze of sleeping (and snoring) men.

Barely outlined in the gloom was Lestrade, still sitting upright under a makeshift blanket with his back against the wall by the withy door. Bradstreet didn't see how he could sleep with the chill, but Lestrade never seemed to mind the cold so much as he minded being too warm. Well, he wouldn't be too warm _here_...

As carefully as he could, he lowered to one knee and gently rested his hand on the other's shoulder.

"How good are you at finding things, Lestrade?"

Lestrade had been _deeply_ asleep. He stirred awake without punching Bradstreet in the jaw, and blinked at his fortunate friend. "Depends. Do I know what I'm looking for?" Long experience with his friend did not give him room for much hope.

"Too right. I'm thinking of something my gran used whenever we were sick with a bad cough. It grew all over the Highlands...and...well...what if it grew here too?"

"Oh?"

Bradstreet hunkered down next to Lestrade, putting his pencil to his still-damp notebook. "She called it Wild Thyme. I don't know if it even blooms this time of year, but she made up a _horrible_ strong pot of it when my mother was sick with pneumonia. It cleared her up quick."

"Worth a try." Lestrade nodded. "But you sound like you know what it is more than I do."

Bradstreet hesitated. "I'm going to go for help tomorrow. I can travel faster alone. But the way McAdams is..."

Lestrade's face matched a drumhead at that moment. "You know I can leave you in the dust when it comes to marching around a place like this."

"I know. You can. But it won't all be rocks and heather. Bad enough I'm going, but the fewer of us who leave here, the better."

'_Us_' by which, Bradstreet meant '_Inspectors_.'

Lestrade's face cleared by a quarter-inch, but no more. He was still not happy.

"Look, I'll take one of the lads with me. You can pick him yourself."

"Really."

"Yes, really."

"Radford. Tell me about this plant."

Bradstreet took a deep breath. "I'm not sure where you could find it..."

"Just tell me what you remember of it. That's the best any of us can do."

….. ….. …..


	8. When the Fog Lies Thick

….. ….. …..

Morning was a change from the night before...but not appreciably better. Instead of darkness and sound and fury, there was whiteness and...stillness.

Dartmoor rested hushed after the storm, a single drawn breath held in, waiting.

Lestrade woke to the tap on his shoulder and grimaced as he stretched himself back into a waking state. Bradstreet returned to huddling over the coals, and the rest were sound asleep. Gregson was _still_ out like an expired candle, his large chest rising and falling without a sound.

Lestrade stepped cautiously around his rival. He wouldn't admit it, but Gregson had worried him with his cold allergy, and it was a relief to see him finally warm. He probably needed to sleep a long time if he was going to improve from his shock of the train wreck and the cold rain.

The big Runner grinned wryly at his closest friend, as they sat around the makeshift morning tea. Lestrade shared another slice of cheese and they chewed slowly. The peat sparked lightly, the only sound of the morning besides the occasional birdcall, far too short and far too quickly swallowed up by the silent mist outside the hut. Lestrade could see bits and scraps of people on the floor—the light was just barely that good—but the colour of the light chilled him, as though they were all resting inside a forgotten tomb.

"Reminds me of the Highlands." Bradstreet said at last. "But it's different too."

"I suppose so." Lestrade kept quiet as he ate. He was thinking hard, and that usually made him look like he was in pain. "When d'you think it stopped raining?"

"About two hours after I spoke with you." Bradstreet looked tired, but also rejuvenated with purpose. "I can't say the weather's so much improved though...that fog looks like a white wall of rolling _death_ out there."

Lestrade didn't like it when Bradstreet (however indirectly) echoed his own thoughts on something. It just added to his personal unease. "It's..." He fished about for his little pocket-watch and snapped it open, getting a feel of the time with touch. "Bloody hell." He finished, and gave the watch a cursory wind-up before clipping the lid and crystal back in place. "It looks more like four in the morning than seven."

"We've got Hopkins' sprained ankle, and Gregson can't walk far without his leg giving out. He's damaged a nerve in that leg, hasn't he?" Bradstreet gently brushed the briss off the burning peat. "I don't like the sound of Adams' cough. It's as though the wet settled inside the very depths of his lungs. He's quiet now, but he's coughing in his sleep...he's too tired to wake up."

Lestrade nodded to show he understood.

"So that's three men out of nine who are out; that's one out of three. Poor odds. I know the plan was to go back to Tame and get help...but should we leave any of our men?"

"That's just it." Lestrade's voice softened, and he held his tea-can before his face. "I don't know. Rules are firm—can't leave our men behind if it threatens their health...but they're all in sorry shape."

Unspoken was the fact that no one wanted to be _rescued_. No one had to speak of it—it went past saying. The humiliation of needing to be rescued...

"I'm going to go see if I can find another trail...a closer path. The moor isn't the edge of the earth. There's got to be something built nearby...a house or an estate...I wish I knew how close to Baskerville we were!"

"Hah, wouldn't that be grand...I don't know. But from what I recall, Sir Henry is still wandering the world."

"Strange. If it were me, I'd want to know my part of the world."

"I like the fellow. He's not...odd in the head like a lot of the gentry. You'd like him, Roger." Lestrade's voice was a little wistful. "I found myself liking him quite a lot."

"Paragon of virtue, was he?"

"Not that way...it's just that if he was going to do something, you knew he'd do it. Hard enough to find in anyone...I'm always a bit surprised to find someone who thinks old coppers like us apply to the rules."

Bradstreet chuckled and sipped his tea. He looked curiously at his friend, who was smiling as he looked at the sleeping Gregson. Lestrade usually did not smile when Gregson was involved, so the Runner queried with his eyebrows.

"I was thinking of last night, and what Dr. Watson said of Gregson when he took Baynes to Baker Street."

Bradstreet rolled the words in his mind. "Something about how he was _energetic and gallant_?"

"'_And within his limitations, __a capable officer_,'" Lestrade was still smiling. "Gregson was absolutely bewildered at that. I heard him ask poor Youghal, "'How can you _not_ be capable if you're within your limitations?'"

"Oh, me." Bradstreet struggled to keep from snorting loudly—it would wake up men who sorely needed their sleep. "That's too, too true...Well, if Mr. Holmes doesn't completely baffle a man, I promise you Dr. Watson will do his best to finish the job."

"Too right." Lestrade's dark eyes were rueful and expressive at many memories. He checked in his pockets for his things, and took a deep breath. "I'm leaving in a few minutes. Make sure everyone knows I'll be back as soon as I can."

"You'd better...Gregson's going to scream bloody murder when he finds you nicked his shoelaces."

"Not my fault the men need a bit of meat and Gregson's laces are the finest kind."

"You keep practicing that speech, eh? Might work."

"Might..."

Bradstreet saw held the withy open with one hand, the other wrapped around his tea. His friend paused at the doorway as the withy creaked upon willow hinges. The air was chilly and wet against the hard-won warmth of the hut, but the sleeping men never stirred, worn thin as whitewash from the last day's labours.

Lestrade hesitated in the white backdrop of mist, small and dark and still neat and trim despite it all. He bent and pulled his tiny Dangerfield matchcase out of a pocket. In a quick movement a lit vesta thrust out of the metal box, catching a soft peach-coloured glow in the white mist. Lestrade pulled the red flame into the bowl of his tobacco hard, almost frantically, and did not lift his head until great white clouds of his own making wreathed his head and flowed down his back.

It was an illusion, Bradstreet told himself, created by the smoke. Because Lestrade took no more than one step away from the hut that he began to vanish into the swirling fog. Bradstreet lost sight of him after the third step, but he counted the slow, steady crunch of soles against stones and brittle twigs long after Lestrade was gone, and then that sound was swallowed too.

Bradstreet stood by the doorway long after his friend had melted into the invading fog. He felt strange, like a half-remembered prescience had whispered in his mind. _Be careful in the fog_, he'd been warned time and again as a child. _The fog hides things_. They were city coppers, but they remembered what they were told as children. _When the fog lies thick the earth lies thin_.

Bradstreet no longer believed that if one walked into a bank of fog, they might never be seen again because they had accidentally walked off the path and into another world. No, if you wound up in the land of the dead it was because that mis-step sent your brains a-shattering against a slippery boulder, or you drowned in a mire because you didn't see where you were going. But he could see and understand why men and women of normally hard eye would swear in it. The fog was almost its own dimension; you saw things differently in the swirling white and grey. And try as you might, you couldn't help but behave differently too.

When the fog was this thick, it might as well be another world. Had this been a clear day, he would still have Lestrade in sight. He would still hear him walking away. But Lestrade was gone as if he'd never existed, and there was only the faint scent of the Latakia blended smoke Lestrade favoured. And even as Bradstreet made note of it, the swirling droplets of white mist picked up speed, rushed by him, and danced to a breezy tune he could not hear. And when the air stilled, the Latakia was gone. Bradstreet stepped backwards into the hut, not wanting to be alone any longer.

….. ….. ….. ….. …..

Hopkins had been dreaming strange, confused bits and pieces of murmured conversation and music that could have been wind against bald rock. He moved, trying to wake up, and a shooting pain arrowed up his ankle. "Ah!" He woke up completely, the cobwebs in his brain burnt away from the shock.

"Let's see that ankle, Hopkins." Gregson set down his tea, thought better of it, and poured a fresh cup for the younger man. "Hold on to this."

Hopkins patiently endured the examination. Gregson's hands were large but his touch was so accustomed to assessing injuries he might have been thistledown. Hopkins concentrated on breathing deep, and tasting the tea one swallow at a time.

He glanced about the hut. Most of the Constables were awake, but McAdams had settled deep under layers and was propped up in a sitting position. His colour was high, and not at all good. Hopkins studied him closely in the dim light, noting how the tall man's eyes were half-shut as if by sheer exhaustion.

"Hold still, Hopkins." Gregson's low voice brought him to his own status. He watched as the big man pulled out several clean handkerchiefs from the rain-pail and wrung them dry, carefully wrapping the chill cloth around his hot, swollen ankle. "Keep your foot elevated, where the breeze can catch."

Hopkins took a deep breath and nodded. The breeze would dry the wet cloth, and as it dried, the cloth would chill. It was a common trick when one needed to keep cool, but he would prefer to be warm.

Then he looked at the foot attached to his ankle. "My laces are gone."

Gregson didn't blink. "What a coincidence. So are mine."

"Gregson..._why_ are my laces gone?"

"I expect because we don't need them as we aren't going anywhere?"

Hopkins took a deep breath and held it. He held his gaze to Gregson, who finally had to laugh.

"Don't panic, Hopkins. Lestrade went out on a wild hare of Bradstreet's, and he took the laces of us convalescents with him...looking for real hares while he's out there."

"He's making rabbit snares out of my shoe-laces." Hopkins stated.

"You got off lucky, lad. If he'd known you had that cigarette paper in your pockets, he probably would have nicked those too." Gregson placidly returned to his tea. "Give that maniac a twist of paper, a paper clip, and an India-rubber band and you've got a deadly weapon. Saw him shoot a chicken dead with nothing more than that once."

"Lestrade...shot...a chicken." Hopkins wondered why he seemed to have trouble breathing.

"Hangs out with a bad sort, that runt."

"So it would seem...but why would he shoot a chicken? Lestrade doesn't strike me as the sort who'd shoot anything if he wasn't going to eat it."

"He _did_ eat it. Said fair was fair."

"What's so fair about...what did the chicken do to him?"

"Ah, that's where it gets a little complicated." Gregson said thoughtfully—not to mention, most unhelpfully, Hopkins thought in disgust. "You'll have to ask him the particulars one of these days. I recommend you wait until _he's_ locked up in convalescence. And move the heavy objects out of the way first. Man's a terrible patient. It'd be different, I'm sure, if he could tolerate opiates like everyone else on the planet, but no, he's just got to be contrary." Gregson shook his head in condescending pity. "So he does without the anodynes, and the pain puts him in a bloody awful mood. Not even amusing to be in fit company."

Hopkins opened his mouth to ask when exactly did Gregson _ever_ think Lestrade belonged in 'fit company' outside of Hallowe'en, Belsnickel's, carnivale or some hideous festival involving mummers, horses' skulls, and dragons, but something caught his attention first.

"Is he off with Bradstreet and Radford?"

"Hmn? No, _they're_ finding a path. We got here somehow...now all we have to do is find out way back out."

Hopkins supposed that sounded encouraging. "Lestrade's out there alone." He said slowly. "Is that wise?"

"It's _Dartmoor_, Hopkins. Even _Lestrade_ can't cause too much damage in a place like this."

That wasn't precisely what Hopkins had been getting at...but Gregson had a gift for wearing Hopkins out with his bizarre statements. He took a deep breath, and tried to find a comfortable position on the floor, ankle properly elevated.

….. …... …... …..

Mid-morning slipped grey and deathly quiet over Dartmoor. Standing shadows became green-girt stones, some natural to the landscape, some erected by men long dead. The plants added to the confusion of the land: they grew like slow-rolling waves upon the ocean, and even though green was the favoured colour, there were faint tints and shades of every other imaginable paint hidden in the leaves, twigs, exposed roots, and scarce flowers. The starkest colour of all was a shade of red that looked too much like fresh arterial blood.

The rolling white fogs crept like living things out of secret hollows and notches cut out of rock-faces. Their behavior reminded Lestrade quite disturbingly of small-celled animals underneath a microscope: those strange, blob-things that didn't seem to move quickly, but still moved over things and ate them. Lestrade tried his best to keep his mind open, but that particular lecture had been no less than alarming, not the least because the Professor in charge of the task had considered himself a bit of a wit and at the end of the slide when there was only one amoeba and zero paramecium (_-ms? Paramecia?_) left, he pronounced, "A good thing single-celled organisms can't scream, eh?"

_Who said they couldn't? _ Lestrade had thought—and to go by the rest of the crowd, the other thirty-five coppers had been thinking the same thing. They didn't really _care_ that the whole point of the lecture was to know why water needed to be clean if you were going to drink it. They were more concerned that the man who was paid to inform them of the latest news in water-bourne diseases had a perfume of distilled spirit about his person and a nose like a cherry.

At least the man had ensured the lecture would be an unforgettable one...wives were good at putting things in perspective, and Clea Lestrade stood tops above the others.

Thoughts of his wife made him smile a bit through his glum mood, and he hoped they would be united very soon. Thank God she trusted him...He didn't know the wives of half the present Constables, but the Inspectors' wives were as rock-solid as their husbands, slow to panic and stingy with worry. As soon as someone noticed the policemen were missing, there would be a search party.

It galled their pride to be rescued, but there was the cold fact that they had stepped away from the nearest shelter and medical care for the sake of the civilians. No one had—could have—dreamt the storm would have been this bad...

The small man looked up, his dark eyes sharpening as the endless cloud-cover rumbled. It was no more than the complaint of a giant's belly, but it was a warning all the same.

And Mr. Holmes had actually lived out here. For days!

He shook his head yet again at the amateur's hard-headedness (that he and Watson would call _him_ stubborn was the pot to the kettle), and managed to find a rock that was high enough for a chair while he sat and thought. His legs burned from the constant struggle up slope and trail. Getting tired meant getting careless, and he wasn't about to add to the list of casualties. This Dartmoor had him even more unsettled than the parts of Dartmoor he did know.

Here the plants and stones were as twisted, as frozen in movement as each other. Lestrade was more used to the moorlands of Dartmoor, with long, low sweeps of treacherous bog and brilliant blooms against green-scummed pools that reeked of rot...death everywhere you could look, in plants that grew even as they drowned beneath the surface of the still water, and scores of butterflies and moths that fluttered as they strangled in the pools. Death everywhere you looked, and yet the jewel-like flowers and insects almost made you forget that a single mis-step meant you'd be as dead as the skeleton pony lying not five feet away from your foot.

Lestrade clenched his teeth against that particular memory, but too late.

_A lake of fog,_ Watson had called the Mire. Dear God, but the man's gift for words cut a little too quick! A lake of fog...a lake of living fog, twisting and curling like one of those amoebas puffed up like an adder to bring in prey of all kinds.

There were many occasions when Lestrade bitterly regretted the necessity of thinking. This looked to become one of them.

"_Holmes sank to his waist as he stepped from the path to seize it, and had we not been there to drag him out he could never have set his foot upon firm land again."_

Did Dr. Watson have nightmares of his cases? He had every right to them. Lestrade could still see, clear as a photograph, the moment where they'd almost lost Mr. Holmes for good.

"_I knew quagmire meant quaking mire, but I never knew how true the word was until now." Dr. Watson was out of breath from the effort of walking in the soft terrain, and all three of them were dangerously close to being tired. The wands might show the way, but they weren't reliable. Some of the wands were small and slow to grow; few were the same size. And some had been stepped on by some animal here and there, the prints filling with putrid water._

"_This trail zigzags worse than a day at the market." Lestrade muttered. He wanted tobacco to calm his nerves, but wasn't about to admit to it before the others. They were all to a man, muddy past the thigh where a seemingly harmless step upon a hummock had led to a sudden capsize. By unspoken consent they were travelling close, Holmes with his superior vision leading the way, Watson behind to watch the sides, and Lestrade was far more comfortable with bringing up the end because it gave him the long view of the Mire, and he wasn't convinced this Stapleton character was dead._

_Watson smiled, sun-burnt and healthy even if his bad leg was clearly paining him. They were both dealing with unsteady legs on unsteady earth; Holmes alone was free of all that. He also had the advantage of long leg and little flesh to weigh him down. The way he could move from spot to spot was uncanny._

"_I'm glad we're all wearing very good shoes," he commented. "Otherwise we'd be walking back to Baskerville Hall, barefoot!"_

"_Whew!" Lestrade breathed, smiling at the image-_

"_HOLMES!"_

_Watson's broader body had blocked Holmes from Lestrade's view for just a breath—and in that breath, Holmes had taken a single step to the side. It was so like him, so very, very like him to veer off like a hawk in pursuit of something—but this was not a field or a floor. That quick he was up to his waist in the Mire._

_Lestrade honestly thought his heart had stopped working, and then he guessed he must have blanked in his brain because he didn't remember getting to the man's side, just being there, grabbing at the nearest long arm while Watson grabbed at the other, and Holmes was still sinking down, and the earth rippled like a pond's, flowers and grasses rising the waves like so much sea-weed, and clouds of those strange butterflies were taking wing, scores upon scores of those pale white insects that his gran said were actually the souls of the dead, don't kill them, and they were pulling with all effort, and their own weight was causing them to sink too, because the earth was firmer than the rest of the mire, but it wasn't purely firm. Two men pulling with all their might against the force of the Mire itself, and Holmes was still sinking and Lestrade was gripping that sleeve like death itself, thinking that if Holmes died, he wouldn't be able to survive the memory of the man sinking below this scummy grave, nor could he survive how the doctor's face went grey, and then white as paper with effort and fear._

_Then somehow, some miracle happened and Holmes got a purchase with the tip of his toe against the firm part of the earth, and suddenly they could all breathe in, and inch by inch, the Mire gave him up._

_He was grinning—the insufferable man was grinning at them, and Lestrade hoped to God Above he was grinning from nerves, because if it was for any other reason, he'd beat the cotton right out of that man's overstuffed brains for the fright he'd given them!_

_And here he was, waving something in his hand, an old black boot, the damned bloody black boot that had nearly cost him his life in the first place—he'd held on to the damned thing the whole time!_

"_It was worth a mud bath!" He exclaimed, and promptly they all collapsed upon the hummock, breathing hard, bathed in sweat and mud, while Holmes opened the throat of the boot to show the print on the inside: MEYERS, TORONTO. _

_At this point, Lestrade couldn't possibly damn well care less what the damned Canadian boot's lineage sported, but Holmes thought otherwise. "It is our friend Sir Henry's missing boot!"_

_"Thrown there by Stapleton in his flight." Watson was still panting, but he looked like his heart rate was starting to cool. Lestrade envied him bitterly—he just knew that the nightmares he'd collected spending the night in Stapleton's House of Horrors were about to be violently usurped by this almost-self-murder-by-rank-and-file-stupidity-in-the-light-of-day drama._

_Lestrade couldn't take opiates to sleep...but there was the rest of the hip-flask, and if he hoped to live to see his childer get out of school with honours, he'd best drain the whole bottle before bed tonight. _

_"Exactly. He retained it in his hand after using it to set the hound upon the track. He fled when he knew the game was up, still clutching it. And he hurled it away at this point of his flight. We know at least that he came so far in safety." _

_Oh, praise be to the Almighty...he thinks it was worth it! I will never be the same again! _

_Lestrade would have buried his head in his hands, but he didn't want Watson to write that up about him on top of everything else. He took a deep breath and struggled to his feet, weirdly grateful to the doctor for inspiring his backbone._

_If politics makes for strange bedfellows, what in the world does crime make the three of us? Never mind, I don't want to know. I couldn't bear the knowing..._

That night, he stayed awake as much as possible, which Dr. Mortimer had noticed in his wisdom. Without a single word of amusement, he silently pulled a small bottle out of a ridiculously tiny cabinet, and advised Lestrade to "finish the contents." Lestrade had did just that. Whatever the late Baskerville's tastes in liquor was, it wasn't poor. The stuff had tasted like apricots and honey, and he slept the entire night without a single nightmare.

Those came later, once he was back in the warmth of his own home, among his family.

….. ….. ….. …..

Lestrade took a deep breath, huddled small inside his large coat, hat pulled down around his ears silently paid gratitude to the memory for finishing. Now he could function. His un-gloved hands toyed with several long lengths of tough cord as he rested. Shoe-strings could break easily, and a copper used the best cordage they could find so long as it wasn't obvious that they were using something not personally approved by the Home Office. These wax-wrapped braids were tough enough to be the perfect rabbit snare, and it had been a peculiar sensation to relive the actions of his childhood in Plymouth by setting snares half the morning whilst looking for Bradstreet's wild thyme. No trails for Man could he find, but there were scores of wild-animal paths. There were signs of sheep, possibly wild ones, and the occasional goat, a few badgers (Lestrade always smiled to see those feisty, ill-tempered fellows), and there were hundreds of traces of rabbit-signs...and that of the hare. Hares might be a likelier prospect; rabbits were fussy for dry earth, and he wasn't certain if anything was dry here any more!

The good news was they were still on the outskirts of the highlands themselves, and the gorse the rabbits favoured were sticking up, here and there like black-green flags in the occasional edge of meadow. Those meadows were so far disappointing; they were too small to feed more than one of the black-faced Dartmoor sheep or even a clever goat. If there were to hope for a local farmer or drover or herder, they would need to find a place large enough for many animals.

He hoped devoutly that he wouldn't encounter the presence of one of those wild pigs Dr. Mortimer had mentioned. Sooner run into a sett of badgers with sore teeth!

Bloody hell, he was _tired_.

Lestrade took a deep breath, and forced his thoughts to settle on the task at hand.

Wild Thyme.

As Bradstreet said, it bloomed from late May to autumn...at least it did in Scotland. It had small, purple flowers, and its leaves were small too. Lestrade was guessing wildly that if it had a name like _Wild_ Thyme, then it would possibly, hopefully resemble his mother's favourite culinary herb in some way? He'd collected enough to fill a cart-load of the stuff in his youth, back when he and his sister Jenny were making a play-ground of their mother's kitchen garden. Unfortunately his mamm didn't use English for a lot of her plant names.

"_Thym...bring me the Thym...time for the summer cooking..."_

Lestrade scowled, his face fiercesome with the effort of going so far into his memory. Thym for summer cooking, but there was something else for the winter...the two plants looked a lot alike...something for winter...it grew wild...what if that was the same plant?

If that was the case, it wouldn't be a plant for thick, overgrown soggy places. It would be a tough little plant, digging rock-hard little roots into thin soil and holding tight.

If it was blooming, the insects would be leaping for a chance to feed on nectar...especially after a night like theirs.

One thing Bradstreet had said that struck his friend:

"_On a warm day, you smell sweet lemons. That's when you know you're at a big patch of the stuff. I'll never forget that wonderful perfume. Its beyond describing."_

He _thought_ he knew this plant. It was something his mamm and her mamm had used. But his normally adequate memory was having troubles digging up the particulars. His own fault, he knew. His entire family was one painful memory after another, to the extent that he tried to avoid thinking of them at every opportunity. Well there was a price to pay, and this was it. Now that he needed a memory, it wasn't coming up.

_Best get to this,_ he scolded himself. _You don't have time to spare. We need to get off this giant pile of stone and back to the city. Roger will be back soon...you want to be ready for him._

But the memory couldn't come for his asking, and at last he stood, swinging his remaining snares in his hands. He could at least finish setting while he looked...and perhaps, if he were very lucky, he might walk into a memory.

Lestrade didn't believe in luck, but he was willing to suspend his belief for anything right now. And why not? The whole world was suspended—suspended in a world of white and grey and sharp shards of birdsong within the silence of stone and heather.

….. ….. …..


	9. Frivolity of Noise

Johns, Murcher, Greenwood, Harding, McAdams, Radford, Walters, Bourne.

….. ….. …..

A thundercloud, high over their heads, rumbled. It could be a promise of things to come...or just Nature's way of showing Man who was really in charge.

Bradstreet was utterly miserable.

He should have borrowed the hat of someone who was staying behind, but truth to tell, he had a large head. Gregson's was the closest in size and even then it was doubtful there would be a decent fit. So it was brave the elements with a brim-crushed hat, and a crown that had seen many, _many_ better days.

Radford was blessedly quiet and considerate as they picked their way back across the trail they had used to get here. It was about as wide as a spider's web in most places, and because stones tended to rise through the soil at their whim and not anyone's convenience, they had to circle and loop and go dog-leg more often than not. Bradstreet dimly remembered being too tired to notice when they'd used the path the first time. He'd just been grateful that he could see a path at all.

Trickling streams, some no thicker than a pencil, drained from the mysterious tor and across the ground at their feet. The force of the storm sobered them. Large boulders had been dislodged by the power of the water-logged loam and peat and pea-gravel. They grew used to seeing large piles of relocated mud and plant hanging halfway up the sides of a rock or warped tree-stump, or washboards riddling against the old man-made monuments.

A single pole at what might have been a very old cross-roads hung with its tip barely above the heather. The clooties were sodden and torn, some were already melting back to the earth. Bradstreet knew it wasn't the same prayer-post they'd passed on the way, but the miniscule trail bending to the east would put them in the right direction of the Southern Line.

"Sir?" Radford paused, letting Bradstreet go first as was respectful. "If we can get down to the site of the train wreck, what shall we do if there's no-one there?"

It was a good question, and Bradstreet had been wondering that himself. If the Rail had not been daunted by the weather, then the cars were already back on track and the line was operating full-steam. But if not...well...that would make their task easier and yet harder at the same time.

"First we'll see what we see, Constable." The big Runner grunted. "It may be foggy as London, but it's a sight better than last night! At worst, we'll have to walk ourselves to Tame."

"Understood, sir." Radford nodded, his helmet dripping the moisture collecting from the brushing fog. The Bobbies complained sore about the flaws of their blue uniforms, but they never felt right without them. A plainclothes detective might brag of his freedom, but it took time to stop feeling naked after the years of cumbersome protection all that wool, leather and metal gave them. In a dry uniform, Radford was looking more and more like his old self.

Bradstreet was happy for his fellow, but he was increasingly unhappy about the dampness of his neck. That crushed brim was turning into the bane of his existence, dripping one frigid dew-droplet at a time down until he felt as though the hand of a dead man was wrapped around his nape.

_I should have borrowed Hopkins' muffler..._

"Sir! What is that?" Radford had stopped and stood, squinting uncertainly in the swirling fog. Bradstreet moved to the side so they could both look. It appeared to be another lump of verge, but there was something strange about the thin hues of colour.

"Let's take a look, Constable."

….. ….. …..

Two brown hares within a half-hour of each other. Lestrade had poached too many Plymouth hares in his childhood to be encouraged by this bit of luck. The creatures were nervous and running right into his snares.

_I don't blame them for being nervous...I feel nervous enough being out here._

It was too quiet. After the blare of London, where nothing ever rested, this silence of Dartmoor was as thick as a shout. He kept catching himself holding still, waiting and straining for any sound, any sign of life, but all he got was the occasional snatch of birdsong, or dumbledore of wild bees, and once, the croaking of an unkindness of ravens.

The hares were at home here, so why were they shaken up? The rains? Possibly. Weather could unsettle them for days, especially if they were already frightened to begin with...

Now that was not a nice thought.

_If something's got the addled little things frightened...I can only hope it can be something that belongs to Dartmoor..._

Lestrade found a bare outcrop of rock for a chair and hunched forward, chewing on a stick of heather. One would think he'd be more at home at Dartmoor...it was only 15 miles from his childhood home in Plymouth. But to begin with, the servants hadn't been allowed to leave the estate without the permission of the master...and the master had not liked to let anyone off his lands where they might be idle and lose his precious work. In many ways, Lestrade knew more about the London of his adult years than he did the wilds of his childhood.

And Dartmoor, he had to concede, was something else. There was something unfinished about the lands. He didn't blame Roger for openly liking this soggy, wild and chilly land. Roger liked any bit of land that reminded him of his ancestral homes.

_This part of it isn't half bad, but I'd hate to be up here in the dead of winter!_ This was grudgingly admitted. The stones' silent reference dislodged bits and pieces of old memories, childhood events that weren't so bad to remember. And as he glanced down into a narrow crack in the grey stones, he was struck by a powerful one.

Wild Thyme.

Lestrade sucked in his breath as the old memory finally emerged. He _thought_ he knew this plant. His Welsh grandmother had made garlands of these flowers for the cemeteries. She had died while he was still rather young, but memories of the little woman remained sharp. They'd helped her garland the stones of the dead and the sea-lost with armloads upon armloads of this little bushy plant.

_Well, no cemeteries here...but you'll do...you'll do indeed._

Lestrade knelt, used his small knife and gently trimmed the plant down to the just above the level of the earth. He couldn't bring himself to take the whole thing—the local people probably knew where every plant on the moors rested, and came here for their medicines when they needed it. Taking a patch that someone had claimed was tantamount to stealing.

Bradstreet had said they needed a lot of it. All right. Where there was one, he could only hope there were more.

He picked up the hares and slung them over his shoulder, stepping cautiously along the twisty trails. He looked now within the narrow cracks and deep crevices of the grey stones in hopes of more success. Bits of grey rock were rising out of the earth, like a family of seals bobbing their heads in the water. The feeling of being watched was getting stronger, but Lestrade firmly decided (for now) that it was just his imagination.

A badger whickered, a soft warning. Lestrade knew to take the deceptively mild sound seriously. He paused and looked about, trying to find the source of the owner. The last thing he wanted was the sensation of those strong tusks going through his flesh.

Odd; he couldn't see anything that looked like a badger. He hesitated, and took a slow step forward on the trail. The whickering grew louder.

"Well, I can't _see_ you, old fellow," Lestrade murmured. "I can't even tell where you are." The sound must be playing tricks with his ears...perhaps it was bouncing off the stones like an echo?

At his second step forward, the whickering exploded into the kekkering of a badger at full war. Lestrade jumped back, convinced he wouldn't be able to save himself from a crippling bite, but although the fury kept up, there was no badger to be seen. Breathing hard, Lestrade looked back and forth, side to side, and finally...down.

Dressed in a clump of heather and a strange, feathery flower, rested a rough triangle of darkness and stone. The kekkering was flowing at full tilt from the hole. Lestrade had done smarter things in his life than kneel down for a closer look...it was just as well Gregson wasn't around.

"Good Lord, look at you." Lestrade sighed and wondered what he had done that he deserved the task of freeing a snare-maddened boar badger, not to mention doing this in a way that wouldn't end with an early dismissal from the Force by physical disability. Wasn't working with Gregson punishment enough?

The badger growled, and behind his glowing red eyes, Lestrade read a vow to the death.

"Just as well I know how to sew..."

Lestrade bade a sad farewell to his coat, shrugged it off, and dropped it over the immobile animal's head. If the badger had been verbal before, it was now verbally gifted. Lestrade aimed for the back of the creature's neck and moved to pin it down, uncomfortably reminded of the last time he'd taken his wife to concert. The fury of Chopin was not advisable at close quarters, no matter how affordable the seating.

This snare was wire, and cut into the badger's back paw. Not much blood yet; he must have wandered into the loop recently. Lestrade held his breath, held on for dear life, and dug into the slim space at the back tendon to find purchase, and struggled to open the loop. Done. Now came the hard part: parting ways without either of them settling their differences.

Lestrade weighed his chances, and leaped away hard enough to slam his back against a painfully hard rock. The badger leaped away in the opposite direction. Dazed and breathing hard, Lestrade watched the grey lump roll into the fog with that rather unnerving speed badgers had. Long after he lost sight of it, the stream of insults continued.

Lestrade was just glad his only war-wound was a headache and a clawed coat. "I've heard worse from my in-laws, you know!" Silence. "You're very damned welcome." He said under his breath. Dartmoor made no comment. Heart still thumping, he closed his eyes for a moment and leaned forward on his knees.

A fresh clump of the same herb caught his eye, this one caught in late-season bloom. It grew almost joyously in a thick, straight strip against a long, low stone that was slowly melting back into the earth. Lestrade stopped just before the tip of his knife touched the nearest clump, and felt himself freeze up.

The small man slowly knelt back on his heels, his face creased in thought. It wasn't a pleasant sort of thinking...his face was dark as one of the thunderclouds plaguing their existence. After a long moment he slowly lowered himself until he was lying on his side against the dark stone edge.

It wasn't one of the living stones after all.

It was a stone slab.

Lestrade pulled his bowler off to make room, and rested his cheek in the misty earth. An inky void rested in the space between the lip of this slab, and a lower band of stone just at his chin. A great deal of force, possibly the recent rain, had tipped the stone lid...but the lid was ancient and the edges were soft—if indeed they had ever been hard and smooth. Lestrade couldn't imagine it.

Setting his mouth into a line as grim as the stones he was interrogating, the little detective reached his gloved hand into the buried box, and felt upward, his bare hands scraping chill rock. Nothing. He held his breath and pressed his weight. For a long time there was nothing but the sound of his panting...then the lid scraped a few inches to the side.

It would have to do.

Lestrade pushed his hat further away (grimacing at his limited choices on where to put it), and pressed his face close to the crack. He could see nothing but a thin shaft of the watery moor's sunlight, drifting with dust-motes to the black bottom of the box. The air carried a perfume he knew well: Earth and rock and weathered water and eternal damp and the faintest tang of metal.

He pulled himself back in place, and sat upright, yanking his bowler back on with all due haste. "Bloody hell." He said to himself, but very quietly. The land tended to swallow up sound, as though this part of the world disapproved of the frivolity of noise.

_Frivolity of noise..._

The words of his old mentor Davids came to his mind rarely in his older years. But Lestrade listened to every moment where the Wonderful Welshman's voice rattled in his mind.

_Frivolity of noise..._

There _was_ no noise.

Dartmoor was silent.

No more birds. No unkindness of ravens. No croaking crows or the skree of a hawk.

"_Bloody hell, if this isn't just another problem..."_

The tor didn't answer, but answers were coming. Lestrade slowly rose to his feet, the hares hanging from his hand. His mouth was dry. He ached for a drink of tea—even sweetened tea.

He couldn't go straight back to the hut. It went cross-grained to his fibres, but if he didn't finish checking the snares, whoever was watching him would know his suspicions were up.

_Finish the snares. Pick up what you can...and bumble your way back to the others._

_And hope Bradstreet doesn't run into any trouble..._

….. ….. ….. …..

"Oh, my Lord." Murcher stammered. He knelt in the icy earth and reached down. His partner was crumpled inside a stone box deep in the earth. The lid of the box had been prized up, causing the fatal trip. The Bobby was limp as a prayer-rag in Murcher's arms, blood bright and free running down the side of his face. Hopkins stumbled out at Murcher's first shout, his young face prematurely lined with strain.

"What happened?" The Detective fell to his knees next to Murcher and lifted Johns' head in the crook of his arm. Johns' face was white as the surrounding fog.

"We were looking around, hoping to see some sign of the others, when I heard a rock slide and Johns gave a yell behind me. He was already down in the ground by the time I turned around!" Murcher's Cockney accent was thick with strain. Only long practice let Hopkins understand what he was saying.

"Damn." Gregson had limped up, his white face red with strain. "What the Devil is that?" He struck the coffin-like vault in the earth. Johns was just lucky the slab hadn't partially crushed him as he went down. "Some sort of smuggler's swag?"

But Hopkins wasn't paying attention. "Bradstreet!" He shouted, jumping to his feet and clutching a rock for support. The others twisted around to see the Runner stamping slowly, slowly up the trail. His face was pale beneath his dark mustaches, and purple hollows ringed his eyes. Emerging from the mist behind him was a grim-faced Radford.

"We found the local man who guided us up here." Bradstreet said without preamble. "His head's bashed in." He took in Gregson's silent question. "I recognised his wooden shoes." The big man explained. "And that's not all...remember that big, red-headed Rail-man with thick curling mustaches?"

"The one who called the local over to guide us?"

"He's dead too. _His_ head's flatter than a biffin. If you're to believe the evidence, they both _somehow_ managed to trip and fall over the _same_ pile of stones at the bottom of the trail, _at the same time_."

"I wish it were so."

Lestrade's voice was so unexpected, they all turned to stare; even Murcher looked up from his frightened vigil. The little detective was standing in the middle of a clump of heather, three fresh-snared hares hanging from his hand.

He paused, and took in the sight of the others, his dark eyes lingering on Johns' limp form. Hopkins took the gaze as accusatory.

"He just fell into the ground, whatever it is...Gregson said it might be a smuggler's swag."

"It would be easier if it were." Lestrade answered. "It's a Kistvaen." He shook his head. "I found one when I was catching this...I found three more on the way back, hidden in the weeds. _They're all over the place_, like badgers in a sett!"

"A what?" Hopkins stammered. "A what did you say, a...a kist...?"

"Kistvaen." Lestrade said it like a curse. "We're stuck in the heart of a Stone Age graveyard!"

I hear the rats

navQ&

/2012/04/22/black-co-whistle-manufacturer-history-examples-the-glasgow-


	10. The Last Night

….. ….. …..

Gregson posted Murcher at the door as a lookout with orders to stay put until it was "too dark to see the Devil's Brimstone." The hardened old Bobby was starting to get angry at his friend's injuries, and he would be primed as a pump to look for trouble.

Bradstreet took the Wild Thyme Lestrade harvested, pronounced it perfect, and dunked the whole thing into the steaming pot of water over the fire-pit.

Lestrade returned the missing shoelaces (Gregson slipped his on without a word, but Hopkins offered to dress the game for cooking because the inactivity was starting to rot his brain). As to _how_ they would be cooking the hares...Hopkins felt one problem at a time was quite enough.

Radford and Bourne propped McAdams further up and put Johns under the covers next to him. Johns had regained consciousness, but he was dizzy and complained of goblins hammering on his head.

Walters, Harding, and Greenwood re-checked everyone's supply of light and oil, the rushlights, and the cistern of drinking water. It all looked safe and secure. At least for the moment.

"One thing we did learn while we were out." Bradstreet spoke up to be heard. "The path we were walking on to get here...it's a _mess_. We can walk it, but it will take us hours if we don't want to hurt ourselves even further. Runoff from the higher lands just...picked up the trail and moved it elsewhere in all sorts of places!"

"I know it's hard to tell time out there, but I think it's too late to go get help now." Gregson opened the floor with his usual blunt approach. "We'd have to leave some of us behind, and I'm no more willing to do that than any of you." His mouth was hard and his eyes even harder as he spoke. "We're all leaving the Tor at one time...or we aren't leaving at all. I hope I've made myself clear."

No one offered disagreement.

"Did you leave the dead men where they were?"

"We had no choice." Bradstreet spoke heavily, and the agony of the decision shone at dull metal points in his brown eyes. "There was no human way we could get down to the ravine and get back up again. We couldn't even cover their faces."

"Understood." Gregson told him. "They'll crucify us for leaving them, but right now I don't see what we can do."

"Even the River Police can't do much if the tide's high and the weather's filthy." Lestrade grumbled. He had stuffed his chin into his palm and was sitting with his left leg thrust flat. But the pall about the hut was knowing: no matter what happened, the newspapers would overlook Gregson's duty to his men to get them out alive. They would pillory him for leaving the dead behind. It was not practical nor reasonable, but the reporters and writers were ghoulish ravens with writing-desks, and never hesitated to execute social justice upon anyone who "failed to respect the dead."

Time to keep on the subject.

"I found this by accident." Lestrade held up the metal loop. "It's a poacher's snare...at least that's what it's _supposed_ to look like." He straightened the cord up, and let them see that instead of a tiny slipknot, there was a metal bolt, smaller than a woman's little fingernail. "Does anyone else recognise this?"

"Yes, _sir_." Harding said grimly. "It's just like one of those snares the Christophers planted all over their warehouse."

"Exactly. Greenwood, weren't you actually caught in one of those things on the last raid?"

"Yes, Mr. Lestrade. I was going in with Bourne, and there wasn't a bit of light to be seen. I was on the steps to the left, Bourne was to the right, and the left side was open. I didn't hear a thing, just felt something clamp down around my ankle and pull. I fell hard, and almost took Bourne with me. He saved my life when he caught me."

"Someone falls against me, I grab 'em." Bourne shrugged uncomfortably. "But it's true, he was nearly kilt. That snare would have made him tip backwards, hard, and goin' down the stairs would have snapped his neck."

Greenwood was pulling off his shoe and the battered stocking underneath. A thin, silver scar ran around the flesh just above the ankle joint, like an obscene piece of jewelry. "There it is." He winced at memories.

Lestrade came over, and held the snare-cord against the scar. "Perfect fit." He growled. "Looks like they're still using machinery-cables."

"Might as well...they made off with enough spools of the stuff off the docks." Bradstreet swore softly, and tried to get more comfortable. "As well as anything else the ships couldn't tie down." He scrubbed his hands against his cheeks and struggled to batter himself alert. "Where exactly was this snare?"

"There's no way of telling. The badger had ripped it clean as a whistle right out of wherever it had been, and was hiding in a crook of rock." Lestrade had re-packed his pipe and was lighting it off the peat with a wisp of fallen roof-thatch.

"Poor dumb beast must have been going home and stumbled into a snare they'd set out to protect their operation." Gregson wanted to pace but couldn't. He reached for his tobacco instead. "What are the odds of poachers using metal cords for their work?"

"Low." Hopkins said firmly. "A snare made of hemp or gut is going to dissolve into the elements with time—and hide its traces. Metal snares...well...metal is metal. When I was a lad my cousins and I would look for the few fools who had the modern metal snares...we'd cut them up into bits and sell them in our weekly scrap dealings with the smith."

"I knew I liked you for a reason." Bradstreet rumbled in amusement. The Constables chuckled, which reduced some of the awful tension.

"You said you felt you were being watched." Gregson turned to Lestrade.

"I can't tell the difference between animal and human." Lestrade thrust his hands in his pockets, rattled and irritated at his newest confession. "But yes, it was far too quiet. There should have been some sort of sound, but there wasn't." He hesitated before coming out with it. "Where I was...the sound was off."

"Off? In what way?"

"I couldn't tell where the badger was, even though I could hear it plain as day."

"Called you everything but a Christian, did it?" Bradstreet's mouth twisted at his own personal memories with the large animal.

"Joke's on the badger." Gregson smirked.

Lestrade actually _felt_ his face turn the colour of an aubergine. Gregson was being almost nice in that he wasn't openly mocking Lestrade's illiterate blend of Christianity, but that was because it wasn't the time or the place to torture him about his disastrous mulligatawny of faith. He'd save that for later.

"If the Christophers are holed up where I found the badger...then it will be hard to find their exact spot. I told you I couldn't hear where the thing was; the sound of it growling was bouncing off the stones and made it seem as though it was were everywhere at once. I found it by accident more'n anything else." He took a deep breath. "I didn't see any foot-marks on any of the paths, but then, there must be a hundred such paths criss-crossing around the boulders and shrubs. You could walk all day without seeing any sign of another human."

"Unless you were Mr. Holmes." Bradstreet grinned in patient recollection. "Man's half bloodhound as it is."

"Then we'd have to keep him from running straight into the devil's lair." Lestrade growled, but softly. Tracking was the luxury of the educated, and no one here could claim to be particularly educated.

"Dartmoor's a busy place, isn't it?" Hopkins murmured to no one in particular. He had stopped in his task momentarily, and was leaning his back against the wall for cold comfort. "I used to think it wasn't that metropolitan."

"Which makes it perfect for people like the Christophers." Gregson muttered. "All right, gents. This isn't the usual case at the Met where you talk to your superior and no-one else. There's no glory to hog, just the facts of our survival." He absently moved aside so Lestrade could warm his icy hands over the fire. "That storm that inconvenienced us probably saved out lives. That poor Rail-man and farmer or herder or whatever he was, had been told to lead us away from the train and into some sort of trap but for some reason, they sent us here instead. It's no doubt why they're lying dead in a ravine now."

"The Chrisophers were always good at setting traps and arranging traps." Bradstreet played with a dried twist of new tobacco in his hands. "That's how they killed Wilker's cousin."

"They're a cold-blooded, cowardly lot." Gregson rubbed at his chin, guessing to when he would need another shave. "But they aren't so cowardly as to just wait. The storm's over. They could have easily picked off three of us!"

Bradstreet took a deep breath. "Here's what we know. If anyone would want to kill us, it would be a simple matter to lure us into the Tor, far away from anyone to witness or to help. After all, how hard can it be? They don't even have to kill us—just throw us into the Great Grimpen Mire and let it do all the work." He tried not to notice how Lestrade went pale to the lips. "So, I posit that was exactly what they were planning. They didn't count on the storm."

"Hell, we didn't either." Hopkins sighed. It was the strongest language anyone had heard from him, ever. It almost distracted the others from the subject at hand. "The storm bought us time even if we didn't know it. I'm willing to guess that it set the Christophers back too. Remember, they aren't native to this area...their strength was getting people who knew their territory to work for them."

"We aren't native here either, you know. Lestrade and Bradstreet are the closest thing we've got to natives—and that's not saying much." Gregson wasn't even trying to be insulting with those words, it was just a mark of the level of stress they all felt.

Lestrade and Bradstreet wouldn't have argued or corrected him. They were both feeling inadequate to the problem.

"We don't know why they haven't swarmed us. It's not really an advantage if we don't know about it. So we need to think, and think fast." Gregson's face, pale on the best of days, was pink from restraint. "We're down two Inspectors and two Constables now. That's one-third of our number. If there's some sort of edge out there, we'd best find it."

"What about the place where Mr. Lestrade found the badger?" Walters spoke softly. "It wouldn't have travelled far, would it? What if their lair is close by?"

"More than possible, that's probable." Bradstreet gave up on temptation and shredded a bit of his precious twist into his pipe. Lestrade wordlessly handed him a burning straw. "Badgers like their territory."

"I could find that place again without any problem," Lestrade had his arms wrapped around his chest against the chill. "But it would be risky."

"You aren't going anywhere just yet. The fact that you of all people are sound of foot says something about the desperation of the situation." Gregson struggled to his feet, angry and frustrated and restless. "And there went another drum-roll!" He sputtered. "If we're going to have another storm...Murcher!"

Murcher poked his head inside the doorway. "Clouds moving in, sirs, but too early to tell if they'll pass us by or not."

"If it does rain again, it might could buy us some more time." Harding spoke slowly, fingering his tiny pocket-watch as he spoke. "We won't be very comfortable, but they won't try anything in the dead of night if it means there's a storm. We've seen how dangerous this place is in the bright of day."

"Another storm, even a light one, could be a disaster after the helligan we just had." Murcher offered without turning his head from the menacing Tor.

"What we'll do, is stay in shifts. McAdams and Johns need a doctor to look them over. No matter what we do..._this will be out last night here_." Gregson didn't like saying it, but he was also relieved. So were the others to hear it. Bodies relaxed at his ultimatum. "Hopkins and I will take first shift. Lestrade and Bradstreet the next. Constables? Murcher, Harding and Greenwood are with us. Radford, Walters and Bourne are with Lestrade and Bradstreet. Johns and McAdams are out of the shifts. They need to save their strength because it won't be at all easy to get out of here. We can carry them out—that's the easy part. The hard part is making sure the footing stays sure, and the way stays safe. Whoever's got a full grown man on their back is going to have to put complete trust in the rest of us to keep both of you safe. We'll go over the particulars in the morning. In the meantime, we're going to put up with rabbit stew...or whatever it is you're going to call supper—and make sure all your clothing is as dry as it can possibly get!"

….. ….. ….. …..

Supper went well, considering.

Bradstreet had cobbled an empty tea-can into a warming-pot and cooked down the wild thyme tea into something very strong and thick. It made their noses wrinkle even with sweetening, and McAdams turned very red in the face as he sipped it, but he didn't complain and managed to get it all down without any of it going back up. Bradstreet made Johns drink a portion as well—no sense taking chances, and since there was plenty for them all to "have a swallow" he persuaded everyone into joining the punishment.

"Good Lord." Lestrade sputtered into his sleeve, his face bright red. "If that doesn't cure them..!"

"You've never complained about my cooking before." Bradstreet complained mildly.

"I haven't complained about your cooking since you married."

"Now what does that have to do with it?"

"You tell me." Lestrade took a deep breath and shuddered. "I'm not sure I want to know what's in that weed. I can feel my ears popping."

"Oh, good. It's working."

"Time for the main course." Hopkins had cooked the hares with what very little fat they possessed, and Lestrade had slipped a twig of wild thyme and three bedraggled wild garlics from the depths of his pocket into the pot. The hard biscuits made a decent thickening, and Greenwood gave up his last quarter of Landjäger to the seasoning. Following the first three rules of cuisine that involved freshly caught hare, everyone concentrated on the broth and tried hard not to encounter the tough meat.

"Are you _chewing_ that?" Murcher was heard to ask, staring hard at Harding.

"Just the bones. They're _much_ softer."

"I would imagine..."

"Oh." Bourne said very softly. He was looking up. They all did. Above their heads rested a low, soft patter, gentle as a heart-beat.

The rain had returned.

….. ….. ….. …..

"I'll tell a story, let you lads think about the joys of being a copper at the Isle of Dogs." Bourne said over the after-supper smoke. The tobacco hazed pleasantly over the room, and McAdams was still coughing, but this time, he was coughing _up_. It was a relief to everyone, for the dark phlegm was a sure sign of infection. Next to him on the sick-bed, Johns appeared grateful to be keeping his liquids down.

"Tell away." Hopkins waved his hand through a proud ring of Gregson's smoke.

"It's not a shivery story, so I'll bow out of the contest. But it's a strange case, strange as it gets. I once had a case where a man solved it all by putting a curse on a bale of goods no one wanted."

Everyone paused to consider this unusual sentence. Lestrade stopped in the middle of pouring himself some of Bradstreet's questionable tea (it would seem the worse anything tasted, the better he liked it). His dark eyes narrowed thoughtfully, trying to figure out what would happen in advance. Bradstreet saw him give up the ghost with a shrug. He wasn't going to guess at this without any help.

"I was stationed at the Isle of Dogs for a few months...was glad enough for a transfer for the walk to and from work was almost as bad as the beat! Not to mention, the workers seemed to be going on strike at the least provocation." Bourne looked like he pitied the whole isle. "Normally, it's a lot of chatter and clatter and fuss, but it's quiet in a way. People are really concerned with doing their job and not messing about with someone else's. Well, that is, when their business _isn't_ someone else's! Then there's trouble." He toyed with the handle of his portable tea-cup, which like Hopkins', screwed to the top of his can as a lid.

"It's normal enough when you have to break up a shouting contest between vendors. That morning it wasn't at all normal, because even though you're used to seeing just about anything come through the Isle of Dogs, from scrap nails to fine china, this was the first time I'd seen a row over a bale of sheepskins.

"Someone's fussing over _sheepskins_?" Gregson asked skeptically.

"That's what it looked like, sir. And three little red-faced old gents were doing the fussing. A purchase order had gone wrong in some way, and the Northern Gaelic was flying thick and fast. I couldn't catch one word in ten, and they were only yelling at each other all the harder.

"'_Get that filth off my dock!_' Was the basic message of the language. The owner of the dock was a man some of you might know...it was Mr. McLords of North Sea Shipping."

"Mr. McLords." All the Inspectors looked up from their various business at that. Bradstreet lifted a thick finger. "Ahh...Bourne...would this incident you're discussing just happen to be the one that occurred just before...?"

Bourne was nodding.

"Oh, dear. If I'd known _anyone_ who'd been there, I would have invited them over for supper years ago."

"I'm not sure I would have made much sense back then, sir. There was a lot I didn't know about customs."

"Go on." Gregson prodded.

"'Get the filth off!' He was screaming (when he was screaming in English). 'Get it off my docks! I'll not have it, you cheap, back-stabbing, whoremongering-'

"And that's as far as he got with the name-calling before the second man jumped into it. I can't say I'm surprised. You call someone names, you had best back up the names! But seein' as how both the gentlemen looked to be on the wrong side of fifty, I found myself wading in between and trying to restore peace. The whistle was no help. Nor was the shouting of my own. I finally gave in and picked up each of the old gents, a collar to each hand. If there hadn't been shouting before, there was then! And, by the by, I'm grateful to the wife for her hand with the knitting. Her stockings were extra thick due to the weather, and both those gents decided to unify their differences in their anger to me. My shins were black and blue for a fortnight."

"Ouch." Bradstreet snickered. "Introduced to the fine Highland art of fittygomash, eh? My sympathies."

"I set them down and as they were drawing breath to curse me out, I made my move. I told them the bale would move off the dock as soon as they called the workers. Call the workers, then! But when that happened, the workers backed off and muttered how they weren't going to touch 'those things' even if it cost them their job. I was starting to get a little upset.

"'I'll get them off my dock!' Mr. McLords exclaimed, and before I knew what exactly was happening, he had the hook out, and neat as you please, that whole bale of sheepskins was in the water, floating for the West on the tide! 'There you are! Off! And Off all of you! Beggone!'

My jaw was flapping open, and it was just then that the loading clerk chose that moment to come up. He was dreadfully fussed over what was happening, as if it was personally taking money out of his pocket. But after about twenty more minutes of yelling between Mr. McLords, Mr. Cooper, and Mr. Penney (the clerk), and the third fellow, whom I later learned went by the name of White, was the one who was really upset about it all, because it had been a purchase on his approval. Or so I thought. Not one man present was _claiming_ that large bale of sheepskin! And you'd think they would, because it was sheepskin—and wouldn't it be still salvageable? I was watching it float down the current at a merry enough clip as day faded, and with the fighting still in my ears, I went back to the station, filed my report, and hoped for a better morrow.

"It didn't happen." Bourne added sheepishly.

"It never does." Harding said wisely.

"I hadn't even finished getting to the Isle the next day when I heard the shrieks of outrage. I swear, old men know how to curse! I was jumping to earth and headed in the direction of the sound, saw PC James' helmet sticking up through the crowd, and it was as if the day had never ended—he was hoisting Mr. McLords in one hand, and Mr. White in the other, and right before us on the docks was a soggy bale of sheepskin!"

"This doesn't make any sense at all!" Hopkins exclaimed.

"Just wait. The man's just started." Bradstreet promised.

Mouth hanging open (putting him in the company of the others), Hopkins stared at Bourne.

"It was the same bloody argument. That bale of skins was not to rest on Mr. McLords' portion of the docks, nor would it ever be, and even though Mr. White's invoice stated clearly that he had paid for a bale of wool-skins, he was refusing all accounting of the purchase."

"Did you say...'WOOL-skins?" Gregson frowned as though his head was hurting him very much at that moment. "What sort of Queen's English is that?"

"You should have seen the rest of the invoice." Bourne threatened. He cleared his throat, closed his eyes, and recited from memory:

"'Delivered upon the date of—well, I forget that part—1 bale of prime cured and unshaven wool-skins for G.L. White of Men of London's Winter Coats, to be sent to Dock #490 under the supervision of Mr. McLords of North Sea Shipping. Payment upon witnessed signature upon receipt, remit payment to Randall Ford of Baston Farms, Lincolnshire.'"

"Lincol-" Lestrade swallowed down the rest of the word, his eyes even larger than normal. "Baston? Did you say..._Baston_?"

"I think he's figured it out." Gregson tried to smirk, but it is hard to smirk when your face doesn't know to smile or make a disgusted expression, and the story's underlying, appalling degree of dishonesty mixed with stupidity was threatening to send his composure the way of the British Cave Bear.

Bourne sighed. "Poor James. In a way he had it worse, because everyone had gone home peaceably, but they'd still gone home _angry_. And that anger had just stewed itself like a case of hot pot. All three men were ready to believe the worst of their compatriots...as if any of those three were capable of paddlin' after a bale and hauling it back, not to mention hoisting it back on the docks to bleed out all that ripe Thames water!"

"No one tried to steal it?" Murcher had gone frog-eyed at the implications of blatant honesty in London. "Bourne, what was in that bale of skins? Arsenic?"

"The bale was exactly what the invoice said. Wool-skins." Bourne said wearily. "We hunted down the folks who had towed the bale back and went through, I might add, considerable effort to perform their Christian charity and return the goods to the address. It was my first meeting with the...oh, my. I can't really pronounce it...they were some Christians from Ethiopia...They worked completely on one of the ships from Africa, and couldn't speak English too well...er...that is...they spoke it beautifully. But I couldn't really understand them try as I might, so one of them fetched a lad to go get their version of a deacon...called him a debtera, as I recall. Tall fellow, skin dark as that coffee Harding likes to drink, with hair white as snow. Even his eyebrows and trimmed beard were white. He was dressed in dark blue from head to toe...had more dignity than you'd see in the House of Lords, spoke English with a Crane accent, and told me to call him Yared."

Lestrade was still staring without movement. For that matter, so was most everyone else.

Bourne looked from one man to the other, until he'd quite run out of faces. "Sirs, I swear to you, I'm not making this up. I _couldn't_."

"Oh, we believe you." Lestrade said wryly. "London's quite a city. I just thought I'd heard of all the different forms of Christianity out there."

"That's just because the woman that's the closest thing to his mother-in-law keeps trying to prove him an heretic somewhere." Bradstreet clapped Lestrade on the back. "Church of Ethiopia, eh? We'll look it up when we get back home."

"They're really quite interesting people." Bourne's face glowed at the chance to talk about them. "They say they're older than the Roman Church, and their _debtrawoch—_that's the word for more than one _debtera—_are licensed to practice medicine, cast out demons, and they all have to have the _entire_ Book of Psalms down to memory before they take office." Bourne shuddered at the thought of all that reading. "Yared wasn't officially on duty—he said if he was, he'd have his striped over-coat on, and I apologised to him for the trouble. No trouble at all, he said. His brothers in Christ had told him to take a few days' rest from his duties and he was about to expire from boredom because the view from the ship wasn't very good."

Bradstreet blinked. "How about that." He mused. "I'm always surprised when someone lets the poor preacher time off to rest."

"I think they had to, sir. Something about a very rough exorcism...I didn't ask...wasn't sure I wanted to know."

"Oh, _God_." Hopkins whispered.

"Keep going, Bourne." Gregson encouraged hastily. "We're all ears."

"By this time, the yelling had started to check in with the poor men who'd towed the skins back to the dock. Yared wrapped himself up in a deep blue cloak and stepped into the crowd, and wouldn't you know, if everyone shut their gob all at the same time. He paused and very courteously told the old fellows that he was sorry for any mistakes and misunderstandings, but his congregation had read the address still sticking to the floating bale, and they thought they were helping by returning the bale to the dock.

"I'm not doing Yared the least bit of justice, he spoke so beautifully. He was older and twice as tall as those old Scotsmen, but you wouldn't have known it by the way he respected them. And they respected them back, those grouchy old fellows! I seen them give everyone but the time of day on my beat, so I did. But at that point? I figured I'd seen everything.

"Yared then asked if there was anything they could do to help with the problem, for his congregation was always willing to help another fellow in need of help.

"We canna' have this thing upon the docks!" Mr. McLords burst out. The old man was almost in tears, much to my astonishment. "I've had nothing to do with the beasts in my life, and I'm not about to start!"

Yared knelt to take a closer look—he was _that_ tall—and peered at the dripping skins. I thought he would touch it, but he didn't. To me they all looked like a light brown sheepskin, even though I couldn't remember seeing too many sheep that colour. I was surprised when he pulled on a pair of gloves and lifted the edge of the nearest skin.

"I never knew such a thing existed," he said frankly.

"What, sheepskin?" I asked, because I didn't think I would get any more confused than I already was.

"Oh...no. No, Mr. Bourne. These are not sheepskins. They are pig-skins. We avoid them." He straightened up and nodded to the old Scots. "I beg your forgiveness, gentlemen," he said. "I did not know there were other Christians who avoided the presence of the pig."

"The devil's beast, it is." Mr. McLords answered back. "I've never tolerated them. Not once, and in this city it's hard."

"Mr. Penney sighed. "I don't understand any of it...no one in their right mind would send a good Scotsman a pig!"

"You can imagine my surprise. I didn't know anyone up North would avoid the pig. It wasn't until I was around more of the Scotch that I found out it was still mostly in the Highlands, and there were some in the Lowlands who tolerated pigs, but I also didn't know much about animals bein' raised for food. I had no idea there was such a thing as a woolly pig. I beg your pardon, Mr. Bradstreet."

"It's a bit hard to explain." Bradstreet assured him. "We're taught since birth that they're not just unclean, but they _could_ be the Devil made flesh. I knew of a church where the new minister wasn't told about the taboo...he decided to tell about the time Christ cast demons into a herd of swine and...well...the third time he said the word 'swine' the people stampeded out and never came back! Isle of Skye's occasionally pretty sharp with people who want to farm with swine. Me, I can say the word and I can be around people who eat it...but I'm never going to _like_ the things."

"Once in a while, you'll run into people on the Continent who feel the same way." Lestrade looked at his hands as he spoke. He avoided the topic of the French, usually. Gregson had guessed a long time ago it had to do with his prickly relationship with his father. Thomas Lestrade must have been a real monster, to judge how his son turned into a wooden clam at mention of his own culture.

"Don't stop now, Bourne. What happened?"

"Mr. Gansler was the Inspector at the time. He tracked the bale down to Baston Farms-"

"-Wait," Lestrade's hand shot up like an attempt to catch a bullet. _"Baston Farms_, as in, 'Baston-is-the-name-of-the-woolly-pig?'" At Bourne's nod, Lestrade took a deep breath and nodded for him to continue.

"Mr. Gansler, he wrung out a confession from the manager. He'd not been very truthful with the actual owner of the farm, so when there was an order for skins they didn't have, he substituted with the skins of the Lincolnshire Curly Coat, which is the main breed of woolly pig in England. The other name of the breed was the Baston. And, he wrote the invoice in a way that wouldn't get him in trouble for false vending. Clever in a corner, he was. He said "wool-skins" was how they told the difference in orders between the skins with the wool on, and the skins that were sheared first. We advised him to pay for the difference out of his own pocket, if he didn't want to feel the pinch of the Derbies, and he whined that he didn't know what to do with a bale of sheep's wool that had fallen into the Thames.

"'Not our problem,' Mr. Gansler said, which in effect, I'm sure was just proof of how tired he was of the whole affair. 'Pay the gentlemen for damages and sort the rest.'

"I ran into Mr. Yared not long after that. The ship was getting ready to sail back home, and it was their last chance to stock up on good tea. He was carrying a potted mint plant and a bag of food over his shoulder. He remembered my name, and asked about my health. He was wearing a very striped sort of coat over a white suit, so I guessed he was back to duty. I told him what had occurred and he smiled and to cut a long story short, he said he had 'made some work' to make sure the bale would go to those who would appreciate it the most. I didn't know what that would be, but I thanked him for his time, and he said it was a shame they hadn't spent much time in London, it was such a 'very interesting city', which I couldn't argue.

"That's the last I ever saw of him—or of any Ethiopians. They were interesting, but they don't often travel our way. Sometimes I wonder what business that ship was dealing, but I imagine if it were illegal or immoral, Mr. Yared wouldn't have tolerated it." Bourne stopped to drink thirstily.

"No word about the fate of the bale, eh?" Murcher was disappointed.

"Oh, there was. I had to stop and drink first, man. Wound up getting sold to some Americans."

"What would _Americans_ want with a bale of pigskin flavoured and perfumed of the Thames?"

"Someone told 'em it belonged to Royalty." Harding sniggered.

"Well, someone had taken a photograph of that bale floating down, and they'd gotten hold of it. Wanted the whole thing shipped home with them. They owned some sort of daft business for trout, and their competitors were puffed up with their "always floats" winter deer-hair lures. They decided no one else in the market would have anything approaching pig's wool, and they had a photograph of it floating to prove it had loft. Best part was the price. The farm was so sick of it all, they let the Yanks have the whole thing—just charged for the shipping!"

"You've made my head _hurt_, Bourne." Harding said carefully.

"Mine as well." Walters assured him.

"Hah. You think _your_ head hurts? The man put a curse on that bale of pigskin, and if you think that thing was untouchable before, it was untouchable for serious after that! At the same time, I'm not sure anything else would have kept the bale from being stolen until an honest transaction came for it."

"Be that as it may, I cannot recommend curses, or any other form of methods outside the law in order to see the law be served." Gregson rubbed at his forehead. "Bourne, you were telling nothing but the truth when you said it was a strange case. From start to finish, that story was stranger than the basement of the Royal Museum."

"Now _that's_ strange." Hopkins piped up. "Did you know they've got half a mummy sitting in an old turnip of a jack-o-lantern in the first room?"

"I didn't until now, Hopkins." Lestrade said thinly. "What did they do with the other half?"

"There _wasn_'t another half." Hopkins told him. "Some poor priest who'd been attacked by a crocodile, and they could only embalm what was-"

"Hopkins." Lestrade spoke as delicately as a man with a hangover from the Devil. "I understand. Thank you."

….. ….. ….. …..

Gregson stood his watch with the others, and fell asleep when Lestrade and Bradstreet rose up. Alas for his rest, he slept deeply. His eyes opened several hours later, and would not shut again.

Lestrade's dark brown back was reflecting the red glow of the peat on the other side of the pit. Huddled inside his larger-sized clothes, he looked smaller than he really was. For years Gregson had been infuriated at what he perceived as a trick of the man, but eventually his own powers of observation told him the truth. Lestrade was too active for his clothing to tailor-fit. He simply couldn't afford the extra tricks and tucks into the cloth.

Even now, he couldn't sit still. He was sitting with more sewing in his lap—looked to be his badger-besotted coat this time—and every few minutes, he would stop a stitch, pick up his watch, check the time, and snap the lid shut. He would resume sewing for a bit more, then start over again.

_At least he doesn't use cocaine to calm down. _ Gregson was happy to add that fact to his list of things to be thankful for. Then again, the last time Lestrade was "calm" he was full of some of Bradstreet's horrid distillate. The following day must have been a ripe one in the Lestrade household.

"Roger made plenty of tea before he went to bed." Lestrade murmured without looking up.

"You sent the Constables to bed too?" Gregson challenged, but kept his voice down.

"They're fully dressed and ready for an attack. I've worked with them before...all we need to do is make a noise. I told them if that happened, they should play dead unless we said different."

"Not bad." Gregson said reluctantly. He sat up, bones creaking. "Tea smells a bit off."

"I put the rest of Bradstreet's foul brew in. It can't hurt us, though it might feel like it going down." Lestrade kept stitching.

Gregson couldn't take it any more. "Why aren't you facing the firepit? Wouldn't it be simpler to stitch by the light instead of against it?"

"I don't want to ruin my night-eyes."

Gregson slowly shut his mouth. That flat, dead-like quality to the other's voice was a warning. Gregson wasn't sure what he'd done to score a mark against Lestrade, but he had. Very annoying when he succeeded in getting under Lestrade's skin without knowing it.

He thought backward. Thought of Paul Lestrade, the last surviving brother. The man was mad as a March hare, but he was without peer in his night vision. Couldn't see colours, if Gregson remembered right. Couldn't go out on bright days. But he could see at night like an owl.

Lestrade's blank terror of dogs was bad enough, but the terror was far worse at night than it was in the light of day. And Paul Lestrade had been in charge of his master's hunting dogs, hadn't he? Not a pretty image, that.

Gregson sipped the dregs of strong tea without a word. Lestrade must have been roasting with his back to the heat, but he still kept his sleeves long and fastened about his wrists. It was a common habit among men who had been in hard prison. They didn't want the marks to show.

They all had their own marks. Gregson's was on his legs, a vicious criss-cross of soft iron wire earned on his first month as a Constable. He'd been as careful as he could. He'd been warned about old buildings, and water-rats, and how they would lay subtle traps down that could maim or kill. He'd known...and he'd fallen victim anyway. His training partner had been the seasoned veteran of the two, but he had found the poisoned knife and had died. It still didn't appeal to Gregson's rough logic that the raw new recruit had survived with scars, and the wise old Bobby hadn't survived at all. It was wrong.

Hopkins, for all his youth, used his patience and good humour as a mask. He'd been broken in bone and nearly in spirit on a borrowed case in Surrey. They'd almost lost him for good. The burns on his back had never fully healed—nor would they. For the rest of his life, the man would feel the pull of his own skin turned to lizard's leather upon the left shoulder-blade. No matter how cold he would feel in the worst winters, he wouldn't be able to warm his back without waking up the old fire hidden in that thickened tissue. Gregson didn't think Hopkins minded that quite so much as the fact that he had lost full mobility in his left arm. It wasn't enough to cost him his job, but bluntly, that arm didn't lift as well or as swiftly as his right. He compensated in other ways, cultivating a reputation for being the fresh-faced, eager young Inspector. They let him do it. The old veterans tended to overlook the young ones, and Hopkins wanted desperately to be overlooked.

Bradstreet almost didn't bear thinking about. He'd nearly killed himself on a case at the waterfront. That was Bradstreet's problem in a nutshell. He _would_ kill himself on a case. Even Lestrade had more sense than that big man, who seemed to forget he was a man and not a spaniel when he was on the scent. It was that single-minded focus that had sent him up the stairs and into the path of an antique gun. No one knew how he'd survived the shot—and no one was as surprised as Bradstreet himself. Lestrade had grumbled once that Bradstreet had forgotten to get Hazel's permission to die in the line of duty when they married, and it hadn't _quite_ sounded like a joke. Those Scots and half-Scots were a little strange anyway, with their ways and customs. Gregson wasn't comfortable with families that were even more strange than his own. They might go to the same church (when they had time to go), but the way they acted, they had a bit of a difference in opinion on what the afterlife really was.

The peat cracked and popped, pressured by damp and odd bits that didn't burn as well as the rest of the fuel. Gregson blinked, and decided he wasn't going to get any more rest.

The rain was soft in his ears, but it was deadly. There was menace hiding in the darkness, and he knew it.

"Anything?"

"Not a thing." Lestrade kept sewing. "There was a lull, and I heard an owl or two, but the rain picked up and that was that. _I don't like it_, Gregson."

"You're not alone." Gregson stood, bearing his weight on his good leg, before gingerly setting his weight a bit on the bad one. For a moment he was able to stand. He clutched the walking-stick carefully, his heart hammering with hope. He counted to thirty before the battered limb quivered. With a deep breath, he leaned on the stick, light-headed with encouragement.

"Good to see." Lestrade didn't look up from his work. "I'm _not_ carrying you past the Great Grimpen, by the way. Let's make that clear now."

Gregson snorted, dizzy with personal accomplishment. "What, you carried me over the canals once...you can't carry me past a bog?"

"We're both older, and _one_ of us is at least a stone heavier now." Lestrade answered tartly. "Besides...my foot is giving me grief tonight."

Gregson knew what that really meant. Lestrade's back was killing him, which was why he was awake in the first place.

"Well, use your time wisely." The big man offered. "You're going to have to top Bradstreet's recollection."

"I don't think I can tell any stories." Lestrade said at last. "They're still too real for me...I still have nightmares from most of them..."

Gregson settled his back against one of the remaining rolls of felt and took a deep breath. The coolness was a relief after his exertion. Bradstreet's tea needed some sort of warning! He still felt too warm, even in the chilliest part of the hut...

Gregson sat in the cool dark for a few more minutes, simply drifting in the new comfort of the fresh breeze before he thought to notice the air was rolling in from his back. How was the breeze coming in?

Wouldn't it be closer to the door? The foundation was all drystack and mortar—eternal and solid, but the door was soft and brittle withy weavings. The pony's hide tacked over the wickers wasn't much help, but it was help. So why was this the coolest part of the hut?

Gregson didn't always enjoy having questions like this. It meant he wasn't going to rest until he got some sort of answer. He sighed and grumbled under his breath, ignored Lestrade's soft question, and lowered his big body to the floor, spreading his fingers out over the cold earthen floor. It was cold. Very cold. Too cold. The firepit had been producing steady, low heat since they'd found it. It shouldn't be like this.

"What is it?" Lestrade had come over with Bradstreet's pocket-lantern.

"Bring your light over here. There's something fishy."

"There's something fishy about this entire hut." Lestrade complained, but did as he was told. Gregson lowered the tiny box of paneled mica to the floor and flipped the safety, gingerly lifting the top up to leave the candle-base behind.

"Wha-" Lestrade began, but stopped before Gregson could cut him off. As quick as that, the flame had guttered out.

"Wait." Gregson pulled out his hydrogen lighter, and held it close to the floor. He ignited the mechanism, and for a moment, a brilliant flame snapped into being. Then it too, guttered out.

"Guttering in the same direction." Gregson whispered. He heard Lestrade pull out his metal matchbox; the small man re-set the lantern, but this time left a small crack open in the door. They held their breaths, suddenly too nervous to move, and again, set the tiny lantern down.

The candle flame quivered, and it danced, and it dipped low, bending away from the wall foundation, but it did not go out. It was shielded enough for that.

"It's over there." Lestrade's voice was barely over a hush. His sallow face was very still and worried.

Gregson leaned back, running his fingers upon the packed earth and stone. Some of the stones were sharp, but most were worn smooth as eggs from the centuries. That made him scowl. All the floor-stones should have been smooth...

"Didn't you say the foundation isn't the same as it originally was?" He asked quietly.

"I did." Lestrade said uncertainly. "It's like they ran out of stone."

"I don't think they ran out of stone, Lestrade." Gregson's fingers had found something very interesting. "Bring the light over, but carefully."

Lestrade obliged. Light spilled over the uneven cobbled floor, to the sight of Gregson's fingers half-buried in a small crack.

"That doesn't look natural." Lestrade swallowed.

"No...no it doesn't." Gregson was barely speaking. "Well, that answers that."

"Answers what?"

"Why they haven't attacked us while we slept. They're afraid we found something of theirs...something that's hidden."

Lestrade's face darkened. It boded ill for the Christophers. "Swag after all." He said darkly. "Those filthy killers."

Gregson took a deep breath. "Give me a hand. I think this can come up in one piece."


	11. Twice Stolen Goods

….. ….. …..

It took little effort to rouse the other men. McAdams had recovered enough that he offered to watch the doorway with Radford; they conceded to his request and silently cheered at the sight of him standing on his own two feet again. He was still coughing—great lumps of infection were coming out into his handkerchief, but as his lungs cleared, his health improved.

"After that last rain, it feels positively dry," he noted.

"It's still damp enough for me, thank you." Murcher grunted. "Good to see you up."

"I'm glad to be up...felt like I was suffocatin', but I couldn't draw enough breath to do anything about it." Very, very gently, McAdams paused and took a slow breath into his lungs, reveling in the luxury. "So we've got a room for swag, eh? Old Man Roane would be screeching at us right now, wouldn't he?"

"'Check the floorboards!' Murcher imitated, and the two chuckled softly. "Can you imagine what would happen if we told him there were no floorboards?"

"'Then check the floor!'"

….. ….. ….. ….. …..

"Bloody hell." Bradstreet opined at the sight of his precious little pocket-lantern sitting in the bottom of a squarish, man-made chamber at least two and a half yards straight down. Spiderwebs caught glittering dust-motes and damps like strange beads in the flame. The tiny light's yellow glow threw a crazed light upon the rough-textured earthen walls. Casting a giant's shadow loomed Lestrade, fully dressed for hell or high water, slamming his bowler tight about his brow. "Lestrade...what's down there?"

Lestrade looked back up, his neck craning painfully. "Boxes of rifles." he called back. "Sharps 1874."

"Well of course they are." Hopkins paused and swore violently. "Damn those bloody-minded bastards! Who were they going to sell them to? Ireland? Africa? Australia?"

"Any place where a rifle that can take .40-.90 calibres is wanted." Murcher supplied grimly. His eyes were terribly dark. "Am I the only one who thinks they _might_ be headed to Ireland?"

"It would be just like those Christophers to seek profit in the horrors going on over there, but all of Europe's a tinderbox right now with Dynamiters and Anarchists doing their best to send the world up in flames." Greenwood's military experience had left him as hard as he was jaded. He lit a cigarette with one hand. "Mr. Lestrade, sir. What are the loadings? The barrel lengths?"

"You can see for yourself, Greenwood. Gregson, let him come down."

Grunting, the soldier-turned Bobby lowered himself until his hands suspended his body at the lip of the hatch, and then he let go. Cold earth shifted beneath his impact, and he straightened, brushing his coat awkwardly. "If you don't mind, sir. I'd like to take a look."

"Be my guest." Lestrade stepped aside and finished his own smoke. Bradstreet flopped on his belly and peered, head-upside down, to see the chamber beneath.

"Just how many crates are in here?" He demanded.

"I counted twenty. All of them appear to be rifles...couldn't see anything in the way of ammunition to go with them—small favours, I suppose."

"My God." Even Gregson lost colour at the thought of twenty crates of rifles that were capable of shooting out one bullet for every six seconds.

"Quite enough to cause damage...but if they were careful, they could smuggle them out a crate or two at a time." Bradstreet choked at the thought, and started fumbling for fresh tobacco, just to give his hands something to do. Gregson passed him his precious hydrogen lighter. "Anything else in there?"

"Just a crack in the wall...looks like an old cave-passage. Too small for those big brutes to crawl in."

"You're certain about that, Lestrade?"

"Anyone looks as big as my wife's bully great brothers, I notice! They're all big clumsy giants. Try to crawl through this, they'd cork it."

"Now there's a pleasant image..."

"Sirs, we have a problem here." Greenwood had brushed a fine layer of dust from the bottom of the nearest crate. Sigils wore thin and black against the layers of dull oil paint. "The labels have been torn off, but they were in a hurry. I think I'm reading the Autonomie Club."

Under ordinary circumstance, Lestrade might have felt his legs give out. For some reason he was just too angry. "Stay here, if you please. I need to speak with the other Inspectors."

Greenwood looked up at the moment Lestrade's voice had turned to ice. The small man was standing stock-still, his dark eyes shooting fire.

Harding dropped down to take Lestrade's place. The two Bobbies waited, uncomfortably warm in the still air of the chamber, both men watching as the plainclothed detectives vanished to some place private.

"What do you think is going on?" Harding whispered at last.

Greenwood shook his head. "I don't know...and I'm not sure I want to know." He whispered back. "Anything to do with the Autonomie Club...that means Anarchists, eh?"

"I thought they deported all the members of the Club back to their own countries." Harding said uncertainly.

"They did...but that leaves the fact that the people who started the trouble were our own men." Greenwood gnawed on his thumbnail, eyes hooded as his friend gulped.

"You're thinking of that Coulon fellow. And how he was supposed to work with Melville."

"Supposed nothing. Superintendent Melville's so smart he'd scare the Prophet Isaiah. I'm _worried_, Harding." Greenwood jammed his hands under his sleeves for warmth against a chill that started in his heart. "Coulon set up the Walsall Anarchists so they would set those bombs and prove themselves guilty. I knew it soon as I put eyes on him. Butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. Melville's the same way."

"The Anarchists usually have bombs. What are they doing with _all these rifles?_" Harding waved a hand over the pile of crates. "And why rifles that the Americans aren't even making any more? Of course they look good, and they shoot like a sniper's dream...but what advantage do you have if your guns are _that_ specialised? They aren't exactly shooting buffalo, elephants or angry rhinos in Europe."

"No, just Royalty, Ambassadors, and Labour Party speakers. Good question. I'm glad I'm not the one who has to answer that."

….. ….. ….. …..

Hopkins took the news better than his older companions. His lips sewed to a straight seam and his face narrowed over his collar.

"Those bastards Melville and Coulon've got their bloody hands all over this!" Bradstreet hissed. His colour came and went, and from pale to dark, each shade was frightening. "Bad enough they instigated the bombings in Tottenham!

"Careful, Bradstreet. We're not supposed to know about that." Gregson whispered coldly.

"Yes, _we_ helped cover it all up." Hopkins agreed sarcastically. "Like the good little policemen we are."

"We didn't know we were covering it up at the time, Hopkins." Lestrade said tiredly.

"No, we didn't. Because we were doing our job and not asking questions and we did what we were told...we were their good little policemen." Hopkins spat on the floor.

"I don't know if any of the Inspectors, from second class on up don't know something of the business, but we're the ones stuck with this." Bradstreet wiped his face with his sleeve.

"We can't let the Bobbies know _anything_." Lestrade's hands were shaking. He tried time and time again to light his pipe without success. Finally, Gregson lit his pipe for him. "They have a right to their work too."

"The Baker's1 got a hundred fingers in a hundred pies from here to Ireland." Bradstreet urged. "If he finds out we were anywhere near a stockpile of his dirty business—his _old_ dirty business-we can say goodbye to our careers. You saw what happened when he fired McIntyre! McIntyre went straight to the papers and accused him of stirring up the Anarchists! Nothing came of it. No one even noticed."2

"That's what happens when you have friends in the Home Office." Lestrade swallowed down a giant lump of bitterness. "What are we going to do?"

"The cat's out of the bag in a lot of ways." Gregson rubbed his upper lip. "Our only hope is to find the Christophers, and march them back to London with us."

His companions stopped talking—and for that matter, stopped breathing—as they stared at him.

"Are you _insane_?" Hopkins rasped. "We've no food to speak of, four of us can barely move, we have no weapons, just our sticks, cuffs and whistles, and I guarantee you, the Christophers will be armed to the teeth! We're supposed to get them before they get to us, and march them to London?"

"I didn't say it would be easy, Stanley." Gregson had remembered his own tobacco. "But it's the only recourse we have. Lestrade, you said there were no bullets in any of the crates?"

"None that I could find."

"Now, that _is_ interesting." Gregson pondered in stone silence. "It isn't in the least bit encouraging, but it is interesting."

"Interest all you want." Bradstreet slumped against a rolled felt. He was exhausted. "I never in my _life_ have wished more for Baynes." The reactions were what could be expected: sympathetic grimaces. Horrid as he was to know, the man was an utter genius when it came to slithering out of messes.

"Hah, he'd probably like a problem like this...cure his '_stagnation_'," Hopkins said gloomily.

"No bullets...I _don't_ like that." Gregson said at last. "That implies there's another shipment, or cache somewhere else."

"Or the ammunition was an entirely different transaction...maybe the final bit of bait to whatever the rifles started?" Bradstreet rubbed his aching forehead.

"But Walsall happened a good six years ago!" Lestrade pointed out. "They set up their man, they arrested them for crimes _they_ helped foster...and they dispersed the Autonomie Club to the four winds. Why keep the rifles? Why not 'discover' them and line their caps with another feather?"

"Probably because they might need the guns later?" Gregson smoked furiously. "Or maybe the Christophers are stuck with rifles they can't sell? I've been wondering and wondering why our guides risked their lives to send us here instead of wherever the Christophers had set their trap. They must have known about the rifles. They must have known what was happening." He stopped and closed his eyes for a breath, and when he opened them, his eyes were chips of frozen violet. "This is what I think happened. The Christophers were planning to kill us, but they couldn't get the train to founder when they needed it. Fine, they had a plan in case the first one didn't work. That was to isolate us, get us away from the others. We knew what the surviving gang members looked like, and we were going to notice if anyone around here didn't have a Devon accent. So they got those two to send us arguably to shelter...but it would have been straight to their hideout. We would have been dead in short order, and just another batch of bodies for the bog."

Again Lestrade paled at the mention of the Mire, but he said nothing. His head fell forward, hiding his face from the others.

"Only I suppose, the romance was over with the Christophers and the men. Knowing the Christophers, they just went too far with their courtesies, and made enemies. Or our guides didn't want to be party to mass murder. So they sent us to the hut, probably hoped they could tell us more later, but because of the storm, everything was mucked about. Maybe a message was lost, maybe someone misunderstood, but between the storm and the upset, they weren't able to get to us to finish us off. They were able to kill our guides, but nothing more."

"They could have picked us off when we were out, but they didn't know if we knew about the rifles." Bradstreet growled. "They don't know how much our guides told us—what if those bullets are lying in another chamber not twenty feet away? If they thought we had the rifles and the bullets, they'd be avoiding us most sincerely!"

"It means they wouldn't be attacking us out in the open," Gregson corrected. "They've always used fear as their weapon. They set it up so the victim comes to them, not the other way around. That's how they managed to get away with robbery, murder, vice and extortion for ten years!"

Hopkins rubbed his neck, feeling helpless. "So now what? It doesn't matter what we do...there's the fact that we are now in knowledge of the Baker's _very_ dirty work."

"The Baker doesn't see it as dirty work." Gregson hissed. "Don't you _ever_ forget that. To him the results justify the means. He's no different from those paid spies that see this all as a 'Great Game.' and a player gets killed...well, it's no different than losing a pawn, because another pawn is there to take his place."

Silence.

Gregson cleared his throat at last, because he didn't like the silence, and he didn't like the way Lestrade was being the most silent of all. Normally he'd be placing a challenge or sharp comment upon him.

"We've spent most of our lives in performance of the law because we believe in it. It hasn't been easy, gentlemen. We have to arrest people that we know are only partly guilty, minions of someone untouchable, and we've watched demons in respectable clothes walk by us and smile, knowing we had no power to stop their petty little games. We saw what happened to Whicher. We saw what happened to every policeman who got too close to Saucy Jack. We've put in a lot of good years and we even made it to the realms of fiction—God help us—but we all knew someday...someday something like this could rise up.

"Well, there's nothing for it, gents. If this is going to be our last night as men of the Yard, we might as well make it a good night, eh? And good we'd best make it, if we don't want to pull those Bobbies down with us."

"Sounds good." Hopkins didn't hesitate. "My family's wanting me to move back to the Fens before my feet dry out anyway."

"I don't think your mum will have to worry about your—or any of ours—feet drying out any time soon." Bradstreet sighed through his nose, desperate to lighten the pall. "I'm in too. I wonder if Littlechild's hiring?"3

Lestrade snorted like a plough-horse. "I'll get a job in a circus before I become a _private_ detective." He was trying not to laugh, but there was a little bit of hysteria in his voice. "God-almighty and the Apostles too! Let me know if there's a club for private detectives, Roger. Say hello to Mr. Holmes for me."

"The important thing is, we do something about this." Gregson reminded them all as much as he reminded Lestrade. "We were dupes the last time. Well, we're not going to be the dupes this time. And if we're lucky, we can keep the lads from going down with us. I don't know what exactly I'm in for...but I'm in. Lestrade?"

Lestrade was stubbornly silent, his head down, hat-brim hiding his face. What little they could see of him glowed against the burning bowl of his pipe.

"Lestrade?" Gregson whispered.

"I'm thinking." Lestrade snarled in a tone of voice he rarely used, and never with Gregson.

Gregson shut his mouth in surprise more than offense, and looked at Bradstreet. Bradstreet looked just as bewildered. Hopkins tilted his head to one side in curiosity.

They all stopped talking, waiting for Lestrade to speak. Over their heads the rain drizzled over the roof. On the other side of the hut, the Constables gathered, keeping watch and waiting as patiently as their superiors.

"Gregson." Lestrade kept his head down, so that his face was completely hidden by his brim as he spoke. "The passageway behind the crates. Looks to be cut for one of the little people that built the kistvaens."

"So?" Gregson demanded with more than his usual belligerence. "Are you daft enough to say you want to go shopping down there?"

In the contrast of yellow light and brown shadow, they saw the corner of his mouth turn up around his pipe-stem. "Maybe just a little." The small man said. "Let's face it. The passage wasn't cut for big, clumsy giants."

"No, just little, _stupid_ rats." Gregson sputtered, furious beyond all reason. Bradstreet planted a heavy hand on his arm, stopping the flow of abuse.

"Lestrade," he dropped his voice. "You go down that passage...chances are you'll run into wherever they're hiding."

"That badger...it was right over the other side of the hill from where we are. They're too close, and they're just waiting for the right moment. We can't give it to them."

Gregson folded his arms over his chest, glaring in silence. Lestrade glared back. Hopkins looked from one to the other, but Roger's expression said it all: it was resigned and sad at the same time.

"He'll go anyway, Gregson." Bradstreet said softly.

And Gregson knew it. Put them on a case together, and both men would go their own ways if the scent was strong enough. Lestrade had done it before, rarely with results as dramatic as Watson's _Study in Scarlet_, but he was just more likely to follow his own nose than another man's.

"You get stuck down there, no one will be able to get you out." Gregson said at last.

"Wouldn't be the first time." Lestrade's voice had dropped. "I'll get muddy for a reason, Gregson. You have to admit, they won't expect me."

"No. They have some silly notion that we're moderately sane in the Yard..." Gregson winced at the weakness of his impromptu insult.

"I'll go with you." Hopkins said sharply.

"_Nickey_?"4 Lestrade stared at him.

Hopkins' mouth was hard and old as he stared eye-to-eye with Lestrade. "We're almost a size, Lestrade. And I don't need a good ankle to crawl."

"You still need it for some things." Lestrade protested.

"I'm just another cripple up here."

Lestrade sighed. "Grab one of those felt rolls. I'm not crawling on anything without protection." He pulled out his sewing kit for a rueful survey. "Good thing I always carry extra yards of thread." He mumbled to himself.

"While you're having fun in the sewers of Dartmoor," Bradstreet referred to a past case that Lestrade would really prefer to forget, forever, "We'll do something about the rifles."

"Don't be the only copper in England to shoot yourself in the foot with an empty rifle, you _nouch_." Lestrade growled at him. "Gregson, we leave it to you to tell the Constables what they need to know."

….. ….. …..

Gregson opted for a blend of mostly the truth, and lying by omission.

"What we have here is a problem of a cache of rifles the Christophers have snuggled down in this pit. Going by their past history, the chances are good they've got bullets to go with these Sharps." Gregson hoped Greenwood wouldn't think to ask questions. His military training would show any weak links. "We're going to keep the Christophers from getting to their little treasure. But it's going to be bloody dangerous, and difficult."

No questions. So far, so good. Gregson continued as Lestrade and Hopkins came up from behind him. "Lestrade and Hopkins are going on their own mission. We'll trust that they won't have too much fun without us...or that they'll try to arrest too many people at once." The Bobbies grinned, if a little enviously. "McAdams...Johns. You're both in bad shape, but you can still help, and I have a feeling you want to?"

"Yes, sir." McAdams cleared his throat around a new swallow of Bradstreet's tea. "We do."

"Good. Everyone get close. We're getting out of here, and we don't have time to repeat ourselves..."

….. …... …...

"Ready, Stanley."

Stanley Hopkins pushed his teeth together, and slowly lowered himself through the hole, Bradstreet clasping his hands. His better foot caught the top of Lestrade's makeshift ziggurat of crates, and the men paused, waiting for Hopkins to regain his sense of balance.

"Ready, Geoffrey."

Lestrade reached up, wrapped his arms around Hopkins' narrow waist, and lowered him to the earthen floor. "Head's up, Roger."

Roger caught the first rifle easily, passed it backwards to waiting hands upstairs. "One down, how many to go?"

"Too many, damn it..."

….. ….. ….. …..

Bradstreet found Gregson leaning in the doorway, smoking his last. "I suppose we should tell everyone to get one good smoke in before we leave." He said.

"Greenwood anticipated." Gregson told him.

"_Ohhh_...told his story about his mate who insisted on smoking at night in enemy territory?" The Inspectors traded knowing looks. "Oh, yes, that will do it...although someday, I'm going to ask a doctor if it's possible for a bullet to do _that_ when it hits the brain."

"Dr. Roane says yes." Gregson smirked at Bradstreet's defeated moue. "One last good-bye for those who take the Low Road, I suppose..."

….. ….. ….. …..

Bradstreet peered down a final time. The chamber looked less like a Neolithic burial vault, and more like the looters of Egypt had gone insane for spoils. All twenty crates hung open, lids gaping and empty with their folds of oilcloth and twine.

"Cor if you don't leave a room a mess." Bradstreet announced. "What _will_ the wives say about you two?"

"_We_ don't have to clean up after Anarchists." Hopkins shot back. His face had collected a good deal of grime with the work, but he was grinning from ear to ear as he leaned on his stick. "I can bring in a note from the Missus if you want."

Lestrade paused to smile slightly. He was already thinking of the problems ahead. "We're about ready, Roger. You'll be wanting your pocket-lamp back."

"Keep it for now. You never know." Bradstreet dismissed it. "We've got plenty of stuff holding us down as it is."

"Everyone ready?"

"We're going to give you two an hour. If we don't hear from you by then, we're heading out."

"Fair enough, I suppose, but you know it takes time to go underground." Lestrade tapped the bowl of his pipe in a sudden fit of nerves.

"Just...be careful." Bradstreet couldn't pretend to joke.

Lestrade took a final draw on his tobacco, and patted down his pockets. "Badgers, Roger. Remember the badgers." He knocked the spent ash of his pipe to the soft floor, and then...

...he and Hopkins were gone.

Bradstreet shuddered, drinking deep of the air. "One hour." He promised. "I'm headed out not one second late."

"I'm just hoping we can fool any Christophers that might come back here." Gregson confessed this absently, hammering his walking-stick upon the floor to test for any weakness. "If they think the chamber's been looted, perhaps they'll not look too cl—_Bradstreet_?"

"Badgers." Bradstreet was choking. "Oh, I'm a fool. Badgers." he took a deep breath. "_The rains,_ Tobias. _It's the rains._ More than anything else, badgers like their meal of worms, and they hate to dig for them, so after a rain, they go to the surface and pluck them off the ground like so many sweets. The badger was found snared, _above the ground_! He was snared when he came _to_ the surface of the earth, not _below_! Lestrade's betting that that poor creature triggered a snare that led from the Christopher's lair to here!"

"That bloody fool." Gregson wouldn't admire Lestrade if his life depended on it. "And he said the badger was on the other side of the hill...Damn him anyway. He's going to make the paperwork hell on earth when we get back."

"As long as we _do_ get back."

"You're right, we should think positive...we'll have _him_ do the paperwork." Gregson smoked like a chimney-stack as he hobbled to the fire-pit. "All right, gents! Greenwood, Bourne, you two are going to have the most fun of all the Bobbies tunnite. You're going to take those rifles...and do a little bit of...well...engineering improvements..."  
-

1"The Baker" is their nickname for Chief Melville, who worked in the family trade of baking before his rising star sent him to the Met, and from there to the Special Branch (Special Irish Branch). His office later evolved to MI-5. Melville was a results-oriented, powerfully driven man who protected some of the highest celebrities and dignitaries of his day, and yet lost his post once for insubordination. He was not a person to cross.

2 Patrick McIntyre, veteran sergeant of the police. Melville fired him on some pretext, and the sergeant publicly denounced Melville as the provocative force behind the Tottenham bombings. 80 years later, the records proved McIntyre was right.

3Littlechild was the predecessor of Melville.

4Simple in the head


	12. The Baskerville Maps

A train was a majestic beast, but only when moving or prepared to move. Anything else left John Selleck dissatisfied and a little sad, the same way he felt when seeing the broken giants of Egypt.

Coombe Tracey's Sergeant could feel the water soaking through his Wellingtons as he struggled to find a place where the rain would run off and not collect, but it was no use. The water was collecting...and trapping its victims with benumbing cold. Like the rest of the rescuers, he'd been out in the wet since the first alarm, and only short trips to hot tea and stew had interrupted the hubbub. With deepest thanks to the Charing Cross Hospital, every church within miles, and a few men on their off-time from the prison, the rehabilitation of the line was well under way. Baskerville Hall's contigent was further up-rail, controlling the eternal change of fresh horses and sending messages.

Selleck smiled to think of the young baronet; he and his neighbors were certainly ready in a pinch, and they didn't want for approval to be useful—just permission. He guessed that the other gentry, scattered as they were, were looking up to Sir Henry on the grounds that life in Canada had prepared him for a life of anything. If this was how he performed when there was a need...well, it was good to know.

Under a large canvas pagoda (a church donation; another church had loaned the portable stove) he struggled to watch past the clouds of steam coming from his own mouth as skilled rail-workers adjusted their winches, pulleys, and oxen for another attempt at pulling the broken car upright. Too little pull and the car would slide off the rails; too much would tip it right over. Far enough away from harm huddled a lonely artist beneath the largest umbrella any of the police had ever seen, struggling to draw details of the incident with damp paper and dripping chalks and charcoal. A young boy was holding the umbrella for him—and earning every farthing for the task. The police had somewhere in their lives gotten the impression that an artist would have a somewhat more relaxed life than theirs, and this was a strange scene for their eyes. Selleck had certainly never thought he would pity the lot. Between the pitiable artist and the rail-ballast slouched the scrawny skeleton of Mr. Mortimer, who'd inspected the waters of the Tame for any sign of contamination off the train. They felt sorry for Mortimer too. The man had too many hats on on the best of days, but he did take potable water quite seriously.

"If only we could have gotten those b-brutes up sooner," Bloye stuttered next to him. He had turned Granite-grey some time ago, and the grey was tinting with light blue.

"Oxen aren't hasty creatures, Alf." Selleck pointed out the obvious. "Be glad we could cart them by rail this far...three miles a day is about their limit in weather like this."

"Rot me..." Bloye muttered. He was as miserable was Selleck—as any of them. Horses moved faster and were strong, but the mud was pure glue and slop, and no one wanted to risk putting down one of those wonderful draft-steeds from one of their errors. Even a milk cow had better balance when the earth was like this. Once again, Selleck thanked God for Sir Henry's messenger system.

A familiar-looking man was consulting with the supervising engineers. He was tall, plain-clothed and brilliant yellow hair peeked from the shelter of his hat. As Selleck and Bloye watched (it was their turn to "dry off" with tea and they were taking it), everyone nodded in a rippling wave, and Inspector Gregory started marching his long legs up the slope where the shelter struggled to stay upright. Two others followed, both in blue.

"Thank _Heaven_ for Gregory." That was Sage, a transplanted Ottregian1 who was calm as cold mud unless someone tried to tease him for believing in Pixies. "Get your cups filled up now, gents. I'm going to make sure those three have plenty."

Gregory was already grinning as he stamped up the slippery grass, a hand the size of a tankard outstretched for that blessed hot cup. True to his form, he passed the steaming vessels to his Constables before he saw to himself. That was Gregory: a hard taskmaster who was unthinkingly fair to all.

"Engineers have confirmed it all without a doubt, gentlemen." He announced. "The wreck was openly schemed."

"Only took them a day to confirm it, good heavens." Selleck grumbled. "We should all go out and try our pay at the races with luck like that. I hear Colonel Ross has a new colt."2 His sarcasm was recognised for the advanced wit it was. The Colonel was one of the ones pitching in from his side, albeit some people thought he was trying to endear himself to his neighbor's weddable daughter.

Only a man who understood a train on principle but not in practicality would try to uncouple a car as the entire train was moving. Might work in sensationalist novels, but it wasn't a trick for the book's hero or clever magician. Born and raised in the ballast of trains, Sergeant Selleck had trouble understanding why anyone would think they could do such a thing and believe they could escape notice. The uncoupling required tools and timing and a precious half second when the weights between the cars were favourable.

"Anarchists?" Tame's Constable Huguenot (Gregory had "borrowed" him from his superiors) wondered—and he wasn't joking. Anarchists were a strange breed of humanity, possibly rabid, with all the mental defects that came with the disease.

"Anarchists like dynamite and guns—in that order." Sergeant Bloye pointed out. He smoked when upset, and he was smoking a lot. "No one's seriously hurt, but that's only dumb luck."

"Deaf and dumb luck!" Selleck agreed. They stared down at the downed Leviathan in silence. Without steam it was a cold, dead monster—a beached whale fierce left alone, abandoned without its human caretakers and sad. The clouds hovered over the metal machine, forging tiny hammers of water against the black iron skin, _tink tink tink_. Water streamed down the sides, splashing freshets upon the battered twist of rail and cracked timbers, collecting into pools and adding to the sheer misery of the situation. It was taking a ridiculously long amount of time to maneuver the fallen cars upright so that they could be towed backwards off the bridge...and then it was a matter of pulling the rest of the train off its portion of the bridge, and from there, repair the rails so the two ends could finally meet. 'Disaster' wasn't exactly the best word for it all, but it was the best one they had at the moment.

"As far as being seriously hurt, we don't know about the missing men." Bloye asked without any hope in his voice at all. He puffed frantically, no doubt hoping he could get the last of his cigar before the wet found a way under his hat-brim and drowned out his last comfort.

"We're still missing all the Mets," Constable Jackman paused to tilt his head back slightly, letting rain fall off his brim in a rush down his waterproofed back. A little Scotch blood went a long way, and the Northern immigrant looked barely discomfited by the weather's assault. It was demoralising just to watch him. "_And_ those factory workers, _and_ Matty and Johnny are still missing."

"Twelve and twelve and two..._how_ can we be missing that many people at once? They all ticketed in—the stamps are there." Selleck watched as Bloye puffed ever more frantically as he reached the tip of his cigar. "Two dozen men don't just vanish. And what of our two? Matty's a _good_ railman. Johnny's his closest friend. I can hardly believe Johnny would just _happen_ to be tending his flocks and fall off a cliff at the same time a train wrecks with Matty in it!"

"You can't possibly think those 'factory workers' really were factory workers." Sage muttered. "Those were Christophers."

"We don't know that for a fact YET."

"That's why we've got Gregory to help investigate." Selleck reminded them all with a light smile. "So someone with sense is in charge at the Main." Various snorts greeted this pronouncement. It would be nice to think that a good, skilled and former son of Dartmoor could be sent over every time something fishy came up...yet it wasn't the way to bet. Gregory was a good man. Bloye said he _had_ to be—he stood out in a crowd like a bloody sunbeam—but he was one of the best men to have on your side in a mess.

Gregory sipped at his tea gingerly. Every once in a while he grew bored and tried to grow a beard. The mixed results were collecting steam as he tried to drink. His face was dark as he sank one-handed into a folding camp-chair by the metal shepherd's stove. "I sent Richards and Fry to see if any of the herders saw something when it happened. Normally we'd be asking Johnny, but Johnny's friends will have to do." He rubbed at his wet face with a displeased look. "Matty's comrades could tell me nothing more than he'd been 'not himself' for the past two weeks. Distractable, hostile to questions."

"He picked a bad time to slide back to his old ways." Huguenot scowled. "If he's just out gallivantin' on one of his poaching schemes..."

"If he is, Johnny's probably with him, talking him out of it. Again." Sage cut in wearily. "But neither of those men hesitate to help when help is needed, and I'd never in a hundred years believe Matty would leave his station! He loves the rail more than he loves his ill-gotten game."

"Hah! You have the right of that!" Bloye roared. "Has anyone thought to ask their families? They can fool the Constabulary any time they feel like it, but foolin' one's mam is another trick."

"It will be until we're allowed to hire wimmin."

"My word, here comes Mr. Mortimer...if it gets any wetter we can use him for stilts..."

Gregory coughed, clearing his lungs, and took a deep breath. "Thanks to Sir Henry, I got the wire back from London." He coughed again, his face turning as red as his hair was yellow. "I'm going to go ahead and start thinking the worst, gentlemen...I'd rather wait until we were all gathered, but I'm not sure we have time." He took a hasty drink of tea. "We're missing eight Constables and four Inspectors, all from NSY. You all know that. But it wasn't until just now that I learnt why all of 'em were travelling together."

"Christopher gang, wasn't it?" Sergeant Selleck grunted.

"That was rumour until we had confirmation." Gregory scolded lightly. "And it was confirmed. They sent a ciphered wire to make sure people didn't know because there are still plenty of them at large."

"They're at large, and they're angry." Sage whispered.

"That they are. Now, I'm a little scant on some of the details, but derailing a train was right within the skills of the first leader..." Gregory couldn't remember the name, so he didn't bother. "It would seem the leader pro tem was trying to follow his example and made mashers out of it. That's a bloody-minded gang, and I wouldn't put it past them to get our men alone if they couldn't take care of them in the wreck."

"They were separated almost instantly, and the question is where did they go. They were probably led afoul because the first rule is to see to the civilians in a wreck. They'd do the proper thing and hole up in wherever there was room." Selleck blinked heavy eyes and took a deep breath. "The storm moved in and turned the slopes to rubbish. There's no traces worth seeing on anything or anyone. We have to guess where they went."

"Just how well would the Christophers know Dartmoor?" Sage asked. "Begging your pardon, sirs. But if they have a decent guide, there could be a hundred places to hide."

"Hopefully not that many, Sage, but yes, I understand." Gregory rubbed at an aching knee, moving his chair back as another wave of sodden volunteers squelched to the stove.

"I know the Inspectors, gentlemen. Gregson's just about the smartest man you'll ever meet, and I'm not joking. Give him a riddle and he'll make sure he knows what the rules are, and he'll solve it every time. Got nerves of ice. Could have been a bodyguard for Buckingham Palace. Throw a bomb in the street, and I promise you, Gregson will be the one to throw the bomb _back_ at the killer whilst everyone else is running and screaming.

"Bradstreet's almost as smart, _and_ he's strong as an ox. I wouldn't want to meet the man who could get the better of him in a fight! I saw him pick up a _full_ crate of apples and throw it across a warehouse once, knocked six smugglers down like ninepins!" The others were suitably impressed. "He's a Runner, so he has to have twice the usual regulations committed to memory. Gives him a reputation for being slow sometimes, but he's _not_ slow, he's just going back in his head and reviewing policies and legal bits. When he doesn't have to turn all those pages in his head, he thinks fast and sharp.

"Hopkins is the youngest, a Crane from the fens, but he's fast challenging Gregson's reputation for smarts. He's not just smart; he's clever and resourceful and well educated and it destroys me to watch him fight his own intellect when his head knows what the crime is, but our approved procedures won't let him get the evidence he needs. If he had the standing of a gentleman, his guesses would carry more weight in court than the facts of the hardest lawyer. He's one of those few people who are at home in the city as much as they are in the country. He's got webbed feet and a magician's hands. The men are loyal to their Inspectors, but Hopkins almost inspires hero-worship. He's one of the few in the Detective Department that will jump in and get dirty.

"And that leaves Lestrade." Gregory finished flatly. "He was one of the first men tapped for the CID, and was the Home Office's plant to bring down the corruptions back in the '70's. He comes by criminal work honest—comes from some _really_ ill-bred criminal low-lifes. The real white sheep of a black family."

"Morally untarnished, eh?" Bloye wondered.

"Sterling. Those CID-folk are like that. If they don't fall to corruption, they're incorruptible."

"Mr. Lestrade actually knows a bit of Dartmoor." Mr. Mortimer had come up behind Gregory, and was removing his hat delicately. Unfortunately for him, he was the tallest man under the tent and had to slouch even more to keep from rubbing his head against the canvas ceiling. The chatter eased as the surgeon gingerly pulled off his fogged-up gold-rim glasses and struggled to wipe them with a scarcely drier handkerchief. No one was brave enough to suggest he use spit as an anti-fogging device, but he abruptly proved he was aware of the old saw, and after a moment's hard rubbing, returned his glasses to his beak-like nose with a sigh of contentment.

"Ah, much better...where was I? Oh, yes. He's been over to visit a few times. Sir Henry made his acquaintance over the business of Sir Charles' death—oh, thank you." The thin man accepted the gift of hot tea thankfully. A moment later a liver-spotted spaniel trotted in with his walking-stick firmly clasped between its teeth. "Oh, there it is." Mortimer blinked absently, and took the stick. "Plus he has a brother over at the Prison."

"Works at the Prison?" Bloye ventured hopefully. "Goes to see him?"

"_Gracious Heavens, __no__._ He goes to make sure they _keep_ him behind bars."

"Oh, my." Gregory was too flabbergasted to be jealous that someone knew something he didn't. He chose instead to stare at the spaniel—Mortimer's latest acquisition—and it promptly stared back. "You said he knew something of Dartmoor...more than the Grimpen?"

"That I couldn't say for certain." Mortimer said thoughtfully. "Sir Henry might be able to say more."

"Say more to what, James?"

The baronet himself was shaking his dripping coat at the entrance. His dress was reflective of his rugged upbringing; the oilcloth would have been the admiration of coastal fishermen, and his hat was broad-rimmed and oiled leather. In style or Canadian humour, a green feather from a mallard thrust in the brim. It was indeed weather to challenge a duck.

"Oh, bother." Sir Henry said with a patient smile as everyone present gave him a salute of respect. "At least you don't care about rank," he said to the panting spaniel. "But I would expect no less of a dog that waits on James and keeps him supplied with sticks."

"We were just speaking of the missing policemen." Mortimer supplied. "I could tell them that Mr. Lestrade has been here before, but really little more."

"Ah. Well, I can offer a bit more. He's borrowed my maps once, over that business with his brother." The baronet suddenly grinned as Mortimer handed him one of the ubiquitous cups of black tea. "Thank you, James."

They were a strangely matched pair but moved together as well as men who can only be old and true friends; the baronet had black eyes and blacker brows that expressed his emotions as swiftly as a wild animal's. He was overall quite small and strong, the way a tree-stump is strong and small, while Mortimer had the look of a great lean bird, all long legs, bird-like grey eyes and beak of a nose, with the cloudy-headed habit of looking up as if he was seeking a good clear patch of sky for his next flight.

Selleck paid attention to the gossip—one had to in his work—and he knew that despite his high breeding, Sir Henry was quite the throwback to an earlier day when nobility must needs be proven on the battlefield or duelist's ring. Anyone spending ten minutes in the presence of the latest Baskerville knew he would acquit himself easily and staunchly.

"He's a good enough fellow," Sir Henry added, fumbling one-handed in his pocket for a waterproof tin of cigars. "We spent half of one night puzzling out troublesome and bloody-minded relatives." He snapped a match against his thumb as easily as any workman, and puffed a fragrant cloud of smoke into creation. "I think I managed to win," he added thoughtfully. "After all, _he_ just had the murderous brothers...whereas _I_ had several hundred _years_ of the rascals." He took a great gulp of his tea and sighed in contentment. "Mr. Lestrade keeps his relatives stuffed in a box under the bed with the dirty shoes...at least I _did_ get Horrible Hugo's portrait sent to the attic." He beamed in an excellent moment of self-congratulation. "With luck the rats will find him before April."

"You said he's seen your maps?" Mortimer repeated. To the others he clarified: "Sir Henry has some of the finest maps of Dartmoor one will ever find. He took up the hobby from Sir Charles, who employed the input of the herders and farmers."

"And not a few smugglers, poachers, and people who have even less interest in the law." Sir Henry puffed quietly. "If you're going to build a map, you can't draft—pardon the pun, that was an accident—just anyone."

"Does Mr. Lestrade still have the maps?" Gregory asked without hope.

"Oh, no. He gave them back the next day." Sir Henry took another puff of his cigar and followed it with his tea. "Memorised them."

"I beg your pardon, Sir Henry?" Mortimer blinked owlishly.

"Oh, I forget you weren't there for that. Yes. He committed the maps to memory. Nice trick...I wish I could do that." Sir Henry was working his way down his cup, one swallow at a time, alternating with his cigar.

"I believe it." Gregory cut in. "He's always driving the defending representatives utterly bloody mad in court—do excuse the language, Sir Henry—they ask him some small detail about the murder or the scene of the crime and he rattles off _everything_ about it—right down to the last button." Gregory tried hard not to smile.

"Well, he did tell me that the more details, the longer it takes to commit to memory." Sir Henry added. "If there's a very complicated scene of crime, it can take him over a day. He has a grid-like approach to things...has to memorise one step at a time, can't take everything in all at once unless it's fairly simple. But it only takes him a few minutes to get a letter or note down. And that I do believe—I showed him Ozymandius as a joke, and he rattled it right back to me half an hour later." The baronet politely returned his empty cup and found an already empty camp-chair.

"Celts have a faculty for memorisation; it compensates for their recent introduction into written language." the surgeon assured him. "They've not had as long as we in their letters. I daresay the longer they are exposed to the alphabet and the dictionary, the more the ability will fade." He found a relatively firm spot of earth and leaned on his stick. "Would his memorisation of the maps be of use to him and his comrades?"

Sir Henry shook ash upon the wet grass before answering. "They were complicated maps, and he was looking for specifics...therefore I can't say just how well he committed them. But he strikes me as a man who will do things all the way or not at all." He appeared lost in thought for a moment. "The question is, why in thunder would someone try to make off with a whole lot of police? It's as bad as the Molly McGuires! Or those damned scowrers. I like the Yanks well enough, but I was glad to not have their problems with the rascals. It's like a dime novel written by a crazy Pinkerton."

"I don't think they tried overt kidnapping, Sir Henry." Gregory assured him. "It's always been the style of the Christophers to...well, mislead the victim and do the work for them. They design and set traps that will send their victim within their power."

"Con artists." The baronet sniffed. "I've no love for that. Hanging's too slow for scum like that. All right, I can get the maps if it can be of help."

"That it would, sir." Gregory did not hide his gratitude. "It would help a great deal. If our men are still alive, they'll need all the aid we can afford. And perhaps it will help us find our missing locals."

"Yes...I heard about that. Is it true that Matty Tucker is one of the missing men?" At the nod, the baronet set his mouth in a hard line. "I don't like that," he announced. "Matty's father was one of the fellows who detailed my best map. He didn't do it for poaching, mind you—he was a plant-doctor of some sort. Used all sorts of things for his hexes and potions."

The police weren't fully certain what 'hex' meant, but felt they had a good enough idea. "We hope he's alive and well and holed up in the rain." Bloye assured the baronet. "Johnny Bidgood is the other man, and those two were ever thick as thieves."

"I'd never believe anything bad of Johnny." Sir Henry answered. "He cared about his sheep and the occasional wild boar that was running over his precious pasture, but he didn't seem to care for much else. If he was watching out for Matty, I can hope he was keeping him on the straight and true." The strong mouth turned up in a smile. "It's hard to be good all your life, and then discover you can be bad. I saw it plenty of times when I was a boy. Best advice I can give is, the same thought that tells you you can be bad...is the same thought that tells you you can be good. Oversimple, I know, but true all the same." He yanked off his hat and batted the last of the water off the top. "I hold the boy no anger even if he was helping himself to my sheep and goats. He learned there was money in poaching when his mother got sick. But I'll be glad to see them both alive."

He tilted his head to Mortimer, touching the brim of his large hat in respect, then repeated the motion to the police. "Gentlemen, I'm off for some maps. I'll be seeing you dreckly."

Huguenot broke the silence of the battering rain. "What an amazing man."

"All Baskervilles are amazing, but I have yet to see a more amazing man than Sir Henry." Mr. Mortimer agreed.

"What did he mean by 'dreckly?'" Sage asked timidly.

"It's one of his Americanisms...he said he was coming back 'directly.' From my experience that means he will not hesitate in his mission." The tall man sighed. "I will accompany him. I've ran out of use here, and while I am very glad that Sir Henry keeps a loaded weapon on his person, two sets of eyes are better than one. Dartmoor can be a safe place, but it is never a tame place. If you will excuse me..."

The tent was empty by one more. Gregory took a deep breath, and held it in his lungs before letting it out. "Sergeant Selleck?" He asked.

Selleck stood up. "Yes, sir?"

"Get back to your station, and keep your eyes out. I'm not liking all of this, and I have a feeling this is going to get a dear sight worse before it gets better." Gregory looked too old in the weak storm-light.

Selleck hated to leave the scanty warmth, and he hated even more to leave the direct line of information, but he nodded. Gregory was right about things getting worse, and they needed to be ready.

….. ….. ….. …..

The Sergeant took his time in his travel. Haste meant foolishness and broken necks when the weather was like this. He huddled deep within his coat and took his time with one of the baronet's loaned horses. The horse in question ignored him, knowing her job better than he did. She had the long-necked look that Silas Brown's3 stables favoured; she was also steady as a concrete anchor upon the wet cobbles.

The rain was driving Sergeant Selleck utterly out of his mind.

Selleck chose discretion with another man's horse, and took an older road that had been kept up since Roman times. It was narrow and laid plank in some places, but it was serviceable and not likely to crumble from erosion at poor moments. Before a half-hour had passed he was passing the painted wooden sign that proclaimed the dignity of Coombe Tracey. The sign in question carried the marks famous to certain parts of Dartmoor: a grass snake appearing to be dead, but any local to the Coombe would say it was merely playing dead; a scallop shell and a soaring bird that was supposed to be a bird of prey, but Selleck didn't know of any bird that looked like the thing on the boards. The design hadn't changed since his fifth-grandfather's4 time, so he supposed it wasn't likely to change in his.

His path took him to The Main Street; it was open and deserted, for the rails parallel to the road was still out of service. Selleck looked to the small dining establishment against the depot, and thought longingly of something, anything hot to eat under a warm, dry roof. When things were slow, the owners were good enough to let the policemen eat in the back of the building.

Coombe Tracey was a small town—almost too small when it came to the people it served. He often wavered between regret at the smallness, and relief of the same. There was a good chance that was just the Welsh in him—like many of the good Devonshire folk, he tracked his blood past the Black Mountains, with a brief diversion at Hoarwithy before finding good soil for their roots within Coombe Tracey. Unlike many of the Sellecks, he did not know of any blood-kinship with those in ColatonRaleigh. But in that ignorance he compensated with his awareness of the town that sheltered his family for five generations.

Coombe Tracey had been in business, in the inhabitable sense of the word, before the Norman Conquest when it was a convenient stop-off from the Roman Roads and even then, the reputation for unmatched apples for the southern portion of the isle was rising.

The "Coombe" referred to an old Welsh word that was in turn derived from an Anglo-Saxon word, referring to a hollow in a hillside, and that was the village in a nutshell: blended of ancestry, unique...and tucked away. The hollow sheltered off the worst of the weather while making it one of the last places in spring to see sunlight. The extended chill hours was the secret to the excellent apples—they bore late but well, missing the initial swarm of parasitic bugs. The other livestock enjoyed the colder, damp fertility of the earth. In some places moss grew like thatching-reeds.

A sheltering place, yes, but the other half of the name carried darker meanings. "Tracey" was a tribute to the Gaelic people who had moved in unknown centuries ago. And while "Tracey" sounded light and sibilant on the tongue, it meant "warlike." The Coombe had been a fort before the Romans, and remnants of thick walls and arrowheads of stone rested like eggs beneath the soil, some in places so thick that even the hardest urchin hesitated to run barefoot.

Mr. Mortimer said the Celts loved their double meanings, and it could also have come from _tracen_, the Middle English word for "make one's way," or the Romans had named it even earlier, for _tractus_ meant "to drag, way, line, course of foot prints," It could even carry both, so that the name meant "warlike way" and pointed out that the scallop shell on the town's emblem was a mark of the Pilgrim who journeyed, and very few places in England just up and named a place wholecloth. They tended to keep what they had.

Mr. Mortimer was a smart one, and eternally interested in the world around him. Selleck enjoyed every moment he had with the man, for his humility was more Christian than affected. But let the Mortimers of the world ponder the past. It was Selleck's lot to ponder the present. Along the Coombe of the village ran the new track of the future: the slim metal road of the train. Better than a Roman Road, and no better way in or out unless one wished for the much longer route by wheel and horse.

Coombe Tracey had the blessing of a railway station, a post office, general store, dry-goods store, a miniscule greengrocer's, glass-shop, two smithys, a bookshop that doubled with the dry-goods, and a tiny eatery that catered ostensibly to the weary and hungry train-farers, but in truth was a welcome social atmosphere to anyone who felt the taste and texture of their own cooking was wearing thin. The various houses of worship were just as limited, but at least the sextons and vicars weren't fighting. With luck, they were all united in casting their blessings to the Heavens and politely requesting that the generosity of the rains go to some other place that needed them more.

The Sergeant hung his soaking coat on the nail behind the popping metal stove, and struggled into a change of dry clothing that, after hours of wallowing in freezing wet, felt rough and hard. He leaned forward on his desk, bitterly weary after his long and uncompensated hours upon the recent wreck upon the rail. If he saw another red cow in a granite-shattered hedged field this week, it would be too soon. Tame wasn't so far from Coombe Tracey that they could pretend not to know one another in hard straits. What happened to one affected the other. He pitied the police over there—even smaller than his own men—and hoped they were getting enough rest. Even the prison had pitched in with help, which was more than decent. Of course, they all worked together in the wilds of Dartmoor.

"Nothing new, sir." The clerk assured him. There wasn't much to do on most days, but when there was, it was usually drastic, such as a prison break or some disastrous Act of God. Selleck remembered an appalling and unheard of drought-year that sparked a fire in the orchardlands—he hoped that never, ever happened ever again.

Coombe Tracey. Quiet until otherwise.

Selleck drew himself upright by pressing his palms upon the edges of his desk until he was standing upright. He took a deep breath and thought of his odds of getting home to a cup of tea not of his own brewing, and some of his wife's fresh-baked bread. Bless her, she baked every day she could put herself in the kitchen, and he was grateful on damp days as this.

Stepping out the door for air, he ran into a familiar face from the prison, old Greep with his eternally trimmed spade beard and habit of carrying his rifle as easily as he did his tea-can.

"Hello again, Selleck...just the man I hoped to see."

Selleck took a deep breath, hoping his heart would hurry and settle. "What is it, Greep? Not bad news, I hope."

"No, as far as Princetown goes. No escapes or anything like that..." Greep smiled in deep apology; they were men outside each others' quarters, and well they knew it. "I just wanted to tell you, we found Matty Tucker and Johnny Bidgood."

Selleck stopped long enough to scrub at a throb of pain between his eyes. Memories flooded him, most painful. Matty was a young man but sincere, and he'd endured a lot of trouble making a name for himself with his father's lacklustre reputation. Johnny was thrice older, a battered old example of farmer, and for some time it had looked like Matty would have the mentor he needed in that man. But other than vanishing like smoke into the moors for days on end...no one knew what they really were up to. It caused worries among the simpler townsfolk. Selleck didn't know what to think, for it wasn't his place to think of people who were not causing trouble.

"Dead, eh?" He asked softly.

"Yes." Greep answered just as gently. "Heads flat as skillets. It looks like someone killed them, and threw them off the Crossing Way path to make it look like an accident."

"Sure it wasn't?" Selleck asked without hope.

Greep lifted his shoulder up. "Our crow was volunteering, Selleck. He said heads don't flatten themselves."

"Thank you." Selleck felt very tired, and very angry. "Did they tell you we're suspecting the Christophers?"

"We just got the news before we got in." Greep assured him. "I came over here to tell you, the others are putting the poor fellows in the ice-house for now."

"Thank you. I'll see to it the Constables keep anyone from getting in or out."

"That'd be fine, lad. Now what?"

"I suppose the next step is to find the missing coppers."

Greep showed his teeth as he shook his head from side to side. "They're probably dead, you know. The Christophers hold grudges. That's what I got from reading the trial in the papers."

"I know...but these aren't the usual lot from London. From what I understand, at least half of them are country."

That lifted their odds of survival in Greep's mind. Like most of the country folk, he carried a well-earned condescension for the city-bred. Nothing personal against them, mind, but you those people didn't know the basic facts about the country. They wouldn't know an adder from a slow worm.

"What do you think, friend?" The prison-guard asked point-blank.

"I think we'll wait just a little bit more, wait for Sir Henry to bring his maps. You said they were found off the Crossing Way? What's the best way to get over there from this side? The Fire Line?"

"Not in this weather." Greep answered. "We'd have to take the Mark-Stone Road."

"Bloody Christ, Luke!" Selleck swore. "That'll send us straight through those kistvaens! That's a travel hazard on a bright clear day in the middle of summer!"

"I know, but it's the shortest way, and the path is safe enough...so far as no one leaves the path."

"Bloody Christ." Selleck wiped sweat off his face at the thought. "Maybe we ought to ask Mr. Mortimer...he's been up there a time or two."

"I'd agree, but he sticks to the Mire more." Greep sighed. "I'm going to grab a cup of tea out of your pot, brother. Let's turn some ideas over while I do so."

...

1From Ottery St. Mary

2From BLAZ

3Rival and (we hope) eventual amicable neighbor of Colonel Ross of Silver Blaze fame.

4Fourth great-grandfather. A more accurate way of counting down the generations, but now fallen out of favour.


	13. Gathering Under the Storm

….. ….. …..

"Lestrade!"

The first time Hopkins gasped his name, the older man didn't hear. Hopkins was desperately trying to keep from being heard. The third time, he felt Hopkins' hand grip his ankle from behind.

"Just a moment." Lestrade promised and sat up in stages, pulling Bradstreet's lantern over and into a patch of silt-fine earth between them.

Lestrade blinked twice. Hopkins was pale, his eyes wide and staring beneath a light coating of the fine dry clay flooring the old water-channel.

"You're straining at your own leash, Stanley." Lestrade murmured. "Whatever is it?"

"I hear water." Hopkins told him. "Whenever we stop, I hear water, but it's a long way. Are we going to have to worry about getting flooded out?"

Lestrade flinched at that thought, but carefully tilted his head to one side, straining to hear. "What does it sound like, Hopkins?" He asked at last.

"It...foolish as it is, it sounds like the ocean."

"That's what I hear too. Don't worry. It's not the ocean you're hearing. It's the blood in your ears."

"Is it?" Hopkins was amazed.

"Should have seen me the first time _I_ caught on," Lestrade could laugh at himself in the presence of his peers. "I was all set to panic. Thought a dike had broken or something." He shrugged, a little awkward. "You can only hear this when it's completely quiet. You'll never hear this in the city...or above the ground for that matter. The caves are the only places where it's quiet enough, and even then, not all the caves are that quiet." He took a deep breath—carefully, against the millions of dust-motes in the air. "We can rest a few minutes before we start up again."

Hopkins hadn't moved.

"Hopkins?"

"I'm sorry, Lestrade." Hopkins still wasn't moving. His eyes had turned inward, wondering. "I was thinking back..." He saw Lestrade was patiently waiting and gave up. "I might as well tell you."

"Yes, you might as well."

"Well...my old minister used to scold us for not paying attention to the voice of God. He said over and over again, that God spoke in a still, quiet voice. And that was why the prophets went to the wilderness to hear. I can just see his reaction to my telling him about this."

"Your minister sounds like Brother Jerome." Lestrade smiled at fond memories of the old Yarder-turned-man-of-God. "The Book of Deborah is one of his favourites because he said there was a reason why the Judge sat outside the city under a palm tree to hold court." Feeling a little self-conscious, he looked down. "I'm no great man of letters," he confessed, "and I only stick with a man of God if I can understand them. But Brother Jerome said the early Christians lived in catacombs...because catacombs are quiet, when you come down to it. He used to live in them, when he was...finding his way after he left the Yard. Quiet, he said. Just _quiet_, where it was _yourself_ and the _silence_, and what came of the two when put together." He looked wistful, like he rather knew what the friar had been speaking of, but also that he wished he could get the chance to see for himself someday.

Which would never happen, not even if the Drowned Kingdom of Ys returned to the shores, bells ringing with barnacle clappers. Hopkins had precious little money, but he was certain he had more than his older peers. Hopkins' family had left him money even if they hadn't approved of his choice of career. There was also the sad fact that Hopkins' generation was simply a bit better off than theirs.

Brother Jerome had been an old beat cop until a case had gone bad; for reasons unknown to Hopkins, his local chapel had thrown in money for his recovery and he'd chosen to do so abroad. When he'd returned it was as a different man. Lestrade had known him before and after his donning of the habit, and said the latter Jerome was just the man who had been trying to come out all along. He was quiet, humble, fearfully intelligent and frighteningly well-educated, and Hopkins figured there must have been something wrong with his birth, because gentlemen _didn't_ become policemen. They weren't allowed.

Hopkins had a very good notion that Lestrade knew the whole story—but like the other fellows at the Yard, no one had a shred of proof to go with it, and one may as well expect a clam to start singing _Gilbert and Sullivan_ than expect Lestrade to talk out of turn.

"Something funny, Hopkins?" Lestrade puzzled over his tea-can.

"Oh...no, no, Lestrade. Just a bit of nerves, I suppose." Hopkins said quickly, and stuffed the image of singing clams mourning a policeman's lot into a far corner of his brain. "How far do you think we've gotten?"

"Hard to say, actually." Lestrade glanced up on instinct; he didn't seem to mind the endless, yawning mouth of a crevice looming over their heads like an eternally hungry mouth. "This is an old stream-bed the old people carved out-" he ran a gloved hand gently across an adze-mark that had chipped out a bit of the turn out of the channel, "-so it's directional. It'll try to go down, and we're going up, so with luck we're heading to a larger chamber."

"But wouldn't that mean we'd run into water?"

"It's probably drinkable, Hopkins." Lestrade had put up his tea-can and was moving the lantern forward.

"That wasn't quite what I..." Hopkins gave up. He decided he could wait to ask questions later...if he still wanted to ask later.

Sometimes Lestrade's answers were far worse than the questions you gave him.

….. ….. ….. ….. …...

Outside in the flying muck of weather, Bradstreet stopped dead in his tracks, causing a minor series of collisions. He sneezed as quietly as he could, but with Bradstreet all things tended to be a bit larger than life.

Gregson paused from his limping progress to glare death. "If we get crushed by an avalanche of rock, it'd best be from Christophers and erosion, not from your percussion."

"I'm just hoping I don't get another head cold." Bradstreet scowled back as he blinked back salty tears. They were both talking quietly, but the rain, soft though it was, drowned their words out—literally-within a few feet of each other. Even the shared bull's-eyes were little more than soft balls of faint, furry light.

"How much further?" Bradstreet dropped his voice. "The lads are struggling."

Gregson nodded. "I've got little sense of distance until we reach the first land-mark." He whispered. "But bad as the sight is tunnite, I would hope it's not so poor we'll miss a row of roundish stones, big as whiskey barrels, set in a row of twelve and twelve."

"Just let me know if you think we're getting close to the Mire." Bradstreet told him soberly. "I've got no love for the place, and I've never been there."

Bradstreet's nerves were poor. He wanted to damn the odds and go back to the original path they'd entered the Tor with, but common sense said this was a death-trap. The dead men at the bottom of that rocky crevice proved the Christophers had that portion of the trail in their control. He knew and understood they had better odds of survival if they followed Lestrade's directions, but for a man who was used to taking charge, sitting back was hard.

And then of course, there was the fact that Bradstreet's closest friend was left behind to go do something daft in the tunnels of Dartmoor. Bradstreet _hated_ not being help to Lestrade. He hated it a lot.

Boil it down, and you may as well say Lestrade and Hopkins' crawling in a lost Neolithic cave-passage (to come out God knows where if they come out at all) was the _safest_ job. Gregson's teammates were the ones with illicit weapons and poor sights, blundering about old sheep-trails in hopes of destroying their cargo before the Christophers caught up with them.

Gregson nodded at Bradstreet, and set his lips firmly around his last cigar. It would have tasted far better had he the luxury of lighting it, but there was no sense being witless about chances. "Well you do recall he said we'd smell the Mire long before we got there." He took a breath of clean air and kept going. It wasn't satisfying to walk so slowly with his unreliable leg, but walking quickly would have been foolish in these conditions. It was Harding who suggested that if Gregson went first, it would force them all to "be sensible" and Gregson had taken to the suggestion well.

It went without saying that he was probably in the most dangerous point in the line, but it didn't need to be said. Gregson never worried about things like that.

Behind him, Bradstreet was guiding the Constables. The crates they carried were long and narrow; they held no more than two rifles at the same time, and this was a blessing indeed. Unfortunately for their peace of mind, the rifles had been fully assembled within the crates; that suggested too much mischief.

"Double gun crates." Greenwood had sniffed. "Waste of wood."

"That just says they want the guns ready for use as soon as they get to their destination." Murcher shrugged. He had been a policeman all his life, but some of his portions of London weren't even as safe as Afghanistan.

It had been Greenwood who noted almost innocently that so much space would be saved _if only_ the weapons were broken apart first. He had proceeded to give his mates a quick and informative lesson in military de-construction, with a most uncharacteristic glow upon his hard face. Gregson had seen a lot of surprising things in his day, but the view of twenty crates of illegal rifles getting compressed into no less than three crates' worth of space within half an hour's time had to be one of the more startling experiences of his career. Too bad it wouldn't be fit conversation outside of this said experience.

Of course that didn't solve the matter of weight. Each Sharps weighed 9.5 pounds, and when one is dealing with 40 rifles, the combined weight was well over twenty-seven stone.

Staggering, if you weren't accustomed to problem-solving and carrying a great deal of weight in a very short amount of time...

"How's everything back there, Greenwood?" Gregson paused to call back.

"Excellent, sir." Greenwood chirped back as he brought up the front of one of the three crates. The old veteran was still glowing, God love him. Gregson privately noted they should finish pulling him into the CID, if they survived. "Isn't it grand to be carrying something that _isn't_ screaming or kicking?"

"Put it that way..." McAdams grinned around a faint cough. He was carrying the lantern Greenwood and Bourne needed for sight. Work had indeed brought him back to life. Bringing up the rear trio was Johns, who was holding the lantern for Radford and Murcher. Harding and Walters went bare-handed, waiting for their turn with the crates.

"Slow down, Gregson." Bradstreet grumbled. When the two Inspectors were able to walk side by side, the Runner dropped his voice. "I'm not sure, but I thought I saw the shine of a light."

"We were expecting that." Gregson muttered. "Keep watching." But he lowered his borrowed bull's-eye to almost knee-level, and kept his gaze straight forward. The concentrated light flowed from the angry-looking 'eye' of the lantern lens, spreading a fan of illumination upon the ghostly terrain of Dartmoor. Even the smallest leaf had its own shadow, and the lights sent startled birds to thrum and flutter at their sides. Fog and the shadow of fog rolled and twisted under breezes they could not discern. The whiteness moved almost consciously, soothing the startled hard shadows of pebble and twig and leaf their lights had scoured.

Bradstreet would tell his wife but no one else that he now knew what it was like to be a character in one of the old ballads, forced to walk in Elfland. It was a fey place where one could hear and not see, or see and not hear, and rarely the two did meet.

….. ….. ….. …..

Hopkins was now an expert on the wisdom of following the person ahead of you in a cavern passage: It was choked with kicked-up dust and mould, and the close quarters pressed on his ribs. But even though he blinked dirt out of his eyes and coughed at every opportunity, he was still glad to be in the back. He didn't like seeing the endless blackness above their heads, or the blackness awaiting them less than a yard ahead of the candle.

A few times when the passage opened, they could sit up and catch their breath. Lestrade's grip on Bradstreet's small pocket-lantern was tight as death, and he was sweating rivers into his collar.

"If something goes wrong, don't wait for my permission. Wriggle yourself backwards, get back to the chamber and climb out of there." He said once when they were resting.

"I promise," Hopkins said, because it was clear nothing else would satisfy the older man. Lestrade's hair was whitened with dust, and his bowler was now the same colour of the cavern passage. Only his eyes remained the same dark and sparking points.

A few more times, Hopkins glimpsed Lestrade's point of view in the cave passage and still didn't relish it. The single candle fluttered in its mica cage, and only a few feet of rock and dust were in the glow. The rest was a black so unfathomable, the flame merely died within it. A scratch and scrape here and there spoke silently of the humans who had been here before, and Hopkins could not help but think of them.

They were small people, small as themselves. They hadn't manipulated the living stone the way a civilised man would; they'd merely chipped the roughness out of a corner-turn, or taken a stone tooth away from where would have hung at skull-level for a traveller. Other than these small, whispery imprints there was no sense of ownership of man in this passage.

He wondered why they would have used this way at all, when it would have been easier to walk up on the surface.

The next time he rested, he said as much.

"Maybe it wasn't safe." Lestrade ventured slowly. He had managed to drink from his tea can without dusting up his tea, so he was in a slightly better mood. "As long as people have been around, there've been fighting and wars."

"Cheery thought." They were both speaking softly; the very silence swallowed up their signs of life.

"You can't tell me all those flint points and axe-heads were spent on deer and trees." Lestrade answered back. "Anyway, these passages remind me too much of the places below London...those lost trails and lost rivers beneath the city. I've been in them more times than I care to think...looking for people who are hiding." He cleared his throat, but cautiously.

"Do you know where we're going?" Hopkins said at last. It was the fifth time they'd stopped. His knees ached inside their padded wraps, and he was fiendishly thirsty. Lestrade warned him to take a sip here and there, to keep himself from getting distracted. Here they could sit all the way up, but Hopkins didn't like to look up here at all—all he could see was a single, knifelike slash of crevice meeting in a point somewhere around their shoulders if they were standing.

Lestrade nodded, speaking quietly. "The flame keeps pointing to us, so there's a strong breeze from somewhere ahead. That usually means the strongest airflow...but we shouldn't think that means it's a way out. It could be just the strongest breeze for this time of night...or this time of year."

"You...really know much about caves, Lestrade?"

Lestrade almost smiled. It managed to get as far as crooking up his mouth on one said. "Worst job I ever had for the CID was as a tinner in Cornwall. Weeks of frozen hell, dragging tools after men and more than not, up to our necks in black water. Here we aren't sputtering up filthy water or ducking large bits of rubble coming down over our heads."

"Putting it that way, I shouldn't complain..."

"Hah." Lestrade made a soft sound. "One of the men was a...well, I don't _know_ what you'd call him. He would collect money from the quarries by crawling into passages like this. He was looking for unblemished crystal seams to break up and take to the surface so they would be sold by his employers. Far preferred that to being in a _mine_, I tell you." He checked the height of the candle, and his striking-matches. "We've got enough candles to see us to Cornwall and back, for that matter. Keep your hat on, much as you can. You don't want to start up and crack your skull on a rock around here."

"I hope the others are moving faster than we are."

"Surely they are, assuming they haven't been stopped." The dark eyes flashed Lignite again. "Don't forget we have two reasons for being here."

Yes. One to find another way out, and second...to be the emergency messengers if the Christophers managed to get the better of their comrades. Hopkins hoped with everything left in his heart that the latter outcome was only a phantasy. He couldn't stand the idea that they would make their escape out of Dartmoor and leave behind their murdered mates. But with the Christophers...it was too likely a thing.

They stopped twice after that. The passage bent and twisted in strange ways, and the rock grew damp the deeper in. Moisture gleamed against the candle, and Hopkins suddenly breathed out, to find his exhalation fogging the way in a great cloud of steam.

"It doesn't feel like it's getting colder," He muttered.

"One thing this does is get the blood going." Lestrade answered. "It's probably cooling off, but I'm too warm to tell the difference." A runnel of sweat cleaned a track of dust from his crown to his left jaw.

"Hold still..."

Hopkins paused, leaning on his aching palms in the dust.

Lestrade put his hat aside, and leaned halfway out the crook of stone. "There's an intersection ahead," he whispered. "I can't see anything...hold it..." He covered the lamp with his hat and they waited for their eyes to adjust. At first nothing happened, but as they waited, a soft glimmering flickered back and forth over the pale stone...a glimmering Hopkins could not track.

"...there."

"Stay. Put." Lestrade warned.

Hopkins nodded, even though Lestrade couldn't see him. He waited with his heart pounding as the older man melted into the gloom. He might have been gone no longer than a few minutes, but it felt like a half-hour before Lestrade's ghostly form returned to the tiny lantern-glow leaking out from under his hat.

"Bit of a problem." He panted. "There's a chamber up ahead, and its been used as a storage." He stopped for breath. "We're about ten feet above the floor of the chamber, and there are people inside."

"Can I see?" Hopkins asked without hope.

"You'd best." Lestrade said firmly.

….. ….. …..

Sir Henry said little, which was rather out of character for him. While hardly garrulous, he spoke what was on his mind and didn't bother with pretensions. That he had something on his mind and wasn't explaining said mind was alarming to his closest companions.

Once they entered the stables, the groom and his lads saw to both men, and even helped them out of their dripping coats. Mr. Mortimer's glasses had by now completely given up all hope of vision. He blinked owlishly and tried to warm the glass with his hands, but they were too cold.

"Here you go," The baronet produced a second pair of glasses, dry and clear, before his face. "I had a feeling you might forget these, so I brought them, but no credit to me I forgot I had them too!"

"Not at all, Sir Henry." The surgeon gratefully switched over, and blinked again in relief. The baronet was pausing to pat the soaking-wet head of the spaniel, whom it must be said, always enjoyed such attentions as much as he enjoyed such weather.

"Always a friendly sort." Sir Henry chuckled. "You're as bad as your own pups." He sniffed and squared his shoulders. "Those maps are in my private room," he pitched his voice to levels more appropriate to humans. "Do we have any fresh horses left, Joe?"

"Colonel Ross and his neighbors just brought in four more." The groom reported. "He passes on his regards and regrets he cannot stay, but he is struggling with a pond-break. He will be sure to be in touch with you at the earliest opportunity."

"Thank you, Joe." Sir Henry said patiently to all the courtesies. To Mr. Mortimer: "It's that man-made pond he built for the horses in dry weather. Well, it isn't dry now! At least if it does break he'll be able to start over and build it back stronger."

"I confess I'm surprised the Colonel has been such a staunch neighbor." Mortimer admitted as they prepared to make the leap from stables to Hall. "Normally if one doesn't live for the Wessex Cup, he has little awareness of their existence."

"I told him on our first meeting I was more pony than horse—and probably an Exmoor at that." Sir Henry grinned easily at the nature of the self-derogation. "Short and stubborn, I was better off with a steed that was the same way. I thought he'd kill himself laughing and said that meant all the more Cups for his stable. We've been friendly ever since."

The two men trailed water from under umbrellas left at the stables for the purpose, and left them hanging on the outdoor nook by the western door. Within a few minutes Mr. Mortimer was warming his hands before the fire, and the baronet was pulling roll after roll of heavy paper down from a wire shelf. Unbidden, the servants brought a tray prepared for High Tea, complete with a meat pie, baked bread, and vegetables.

"No, no, no..." Sir Henry scowled his way through map after map, quickly glancing at the contents before rolling them back up. "Help yourself, James. You're looking peaky."

"Thank you." Mr. Mortimer knew he would always look 'peaky' to the baronet, and it was no use in dissuading him otherwise. He poured two cups of tea and dissected the meat pie with surgical precision, and before Sir Henry could blink, a filled plate was placed under his nose.

"Now _that_ is why I want you to carve the Christmas turkey this year." The baronet told him.

Mr. Mortimer sighed against months of the younger man's patient assault. "We shall see." He always gave the same answer. Sir Henry was really _very_ stubborn when he wanted to be, and he was being very stubborn about the _inviolate_ moorland custom of "you killed it, you cut it up at the table." Perhaps he and his wife could distract the man with another onslaught of marriageable young ladies...it had worked well enough last holiday...the problem was, Sir Henry appeared to be getting more and more suspicious of his 'social obligations' with the increasingly wider and broader foray into visiting cousins, extended cousins, nieces, grand-daughters, god-daughters, and 'school friends.'

"Hmph...here, this is it...about time, too." Sir Henry stuffed a whole potato-cake in his mouth with one hand, and stabbed the offending roll with the fingers of his other. Mortimer hastily prevented disaster and unrolled the map in question.

For a moment, the young surgeon felt envy for a beautiful thing. It was unquestionably Dartmoor, coloured in delicate hues that exactly imitated the lands in mist. Not a master's work, but the work itself was a master. Silver paint trickled streams of water from the high Tors to the lowlands; India ink and dark green paint wrapped the moss-clad Dartmoor forest. Here and there a tiny Dartmoor pony stood guard in a green lea. Chalky pencils sent tiny fingers of stone through the surface of the two-dimensional earth. Here and there were animals, showing where one might have luck in the hunt: hares, badgers—a thicket was marked with a coiled adder and the artist had merrily drawn it to look like the swooning serpent upon the Coombe Tracey sign. Old ruins were black, and birds of prey floated over the map. One of the ill-loved feral boar stood in the highlands, and Mortimer hoped that was not a literal opinion of the artist. He had no love for them, and there were fine relics to be discovered in the Tors.

"A real beauty, isn't it?" Sir Henry set his hands upon his hips, pleased at the creation. "I've added a few things to it, here and there...Sir Charles was about half-finished when I discovered it, so I tried to make our styles blend together. I like patchwork quilts—but just for sleeping under, not reading of!"

"You really ought to have a copy made for the museum." Mortimer said honestly, and Sir Henry blushed a little under the praise.

"Oh, each map gets better. I haven't worked on this one in a good long while—running a Hall seems to take more and more time the better I get at it! But I'm certain this is the map I showed Mr. Lestrade." He touched a clean fingertip to a glowering square that every man, woman and child knew by heart: Dartmoor prison.

"That brother of his is what my old County Antigonishian tutor called, "a real piece of work." Sir Henry tapped three different spots on the map. "If Mr. Lestrade's memorised any portion of the moors, it'll be around this side, because that's where his brother's been found. Still, I'd guess he memorised as much as he could. He just strikes me that way."

"It would be a pity not to use a good memory." Mortimer agreed. He angled carefully to keep from getting water-drops upon the map. "I see it's fairly close to the Mark-Stone Road."

"I was thinking about this on the way back." Sir Henry's voice dropped to grim proportions. He sounded and looked much like he had when the surgeon had first taken his life as his responsibility. "The Christophers would be using the locals as much as possible. Matty and Johnny knew the North End of the Mark-Stones inside and out. There's tons of funny stuff out there if you're curious. Rare plants, rare animals, insects, birds...poachers can spend weeks out there and never run out of game if they're good at what they do. There are hundreds of places to hide, too."

"All that in such a small place?" Mortimer peered hard at the portion in question, but it stayed small and prepossessing. "It's only advantage (that I can see) is that it is just on the other side of the ridge from the train line."

"That's part of it." The young Baskerville grinned as though his friend had said the precisely most cleverest thing. "Those poachers can be real rapscallions, and not a few of them have family working the rails. Let's admit it. If you want to go somewhere in a hurry, you don't take _a horse_. You take _an_ _iron__ horse_." He thumbed the spidery black scratches that meant "rail line" and the silver trickle of the Tame alongside. "The Christophers would have used the rail to get here, but they wouldn't have been stupid enough to linger in one of the outlying villages. No, they would have arranged to get off at here-" He touched the infamously now-broken bridge over the Tame. "The Tame-ward train stops here for water."

"Aha." Mortimer caught on. "Passengers are allowed to disembark because the old Roman Road is a famous one for the naturalist." Both men smiled at Sir Charles' artistic embellishments along the hoary old road: scores of different blooms and birds lined the track as if the human voyager was there for the entertainment of the wildlife, and not the other way around.

_How like Sir Charles,_ Mortimer thought of the man fondly. A man who had a deep soft side even though he had most people fooled as to its existence. _I miss you still, old friend._

Beside him, Sir Henry stopped breathing. He glanced sideways to see his young friend—Sir Charles' legacy-staring hard at something. He slid his gaze down Sir Henry's arm, to the hand and extended finger where a small white moth danced in paint and pencil.

It did not take a genius to guess that the delicate white moth had been Stapleton's contribution to the map.

Mortimer honestly did not know what to say, or if he should say anything. There were days when he even was confused on what to call the murderer—for he was still a Baskerville even if he had gone by another name.

"At any rate." The baronet stopped and took a deep breath. "At any rate, James, here's the rub. Naturalists take all kinds of foolishness with them on their jaunts: cameras, tents, tripods for their photography, easels...they rent pack-mules or donkeys or one of the tamed-down ponies...If these Christophers are as bad as the papers say they are—and I'm betting they're worse—_that's_ the best place to start up a line of smuggling."

"Mr. Gregory seems to think they were suppliers for several of the Anarchist groups." Mortimer raised the unpleasant subject with deep reluctance.

"I knew I didn't like them for a reason!" Sir Henry swore softly. "But you see it, don't you? Straight from the bridge—right where the train wrecked, mind you!-and from there up the old herder's path. They'd be headed to here-" He touched a faint scratch in the top of the ridge. "There's the Wishing Way, and just from there, all those caves, ruins, and four or five different roads. The Mark-Stones aren't far at all once you get to the Wishing Way."

Mortimer sighed, hating that the voice of reason was so often wearing the Mask of Tragedie. Comedie was never around when truly needed. "In good weather it isn't far. But in bad? Even the herders are at risk. You'll see the sheep driving the dogs home in days like this!"

"Don't I know it. It isn't much but it does suggest a lot. If those men were led astray so they could be killed, it would have to be around this area."

"That means going around the Grimpen Mire—hugging the high land the whole time—and taking whichever one of the old Track Lines looks the safest." Mortimer already knew where this conversation was headed. "Sir Henry, for Heaven's Sake! There are poachers, killers, feral boar, sinkholes, those things you call po..._pocosins_ and..._muskegs_ and '_prairie potholes.'_" Mortimer was relieved that he had managed the mouthfuls fairly smoothly (Americans seemed to be the only race that had more words for weather and topography than the Scots). "The only thing that isn't running around at this moment are any escaped convicts—they're all present and accounted for."

"So far, you mean." Sir Henry shrugged realistically. "I'll take one of my ponies."

"What?"

"Ponies. They know the area, you know, and that one with the toad-eye seems to like weather like this." Sir Henry finished stuffing his rations down his throat and scrolled up the map. "I'm looking for one of my waterproof canisters," he looked around. "It's long and bright yellow. D'you see it?"

"Sir Henry, please. You can't really be thinking to go by yourself."

"Jack's a sensible mount. So long as I'm not meddling with damned demon hounds I think I should be fine." The baronet cheerfully drained his tea-cup. "I'm going to send one of the groom's lads downhill with the map." He patted his pockets down for his keys and held out the heavy ring with a flourish. "Hah, there it is." Whistling, he strode to the large gun-cabinet that tried (and failed) not to dominate the wall. "Wet as it is, I'd better get the big guns."

Mr. Mortimer knew he should just give up and be done with it, but some things needed to be said for the record. "Sir Henry, if I might ask you for one, just one reason why it is a good idea for you to go off by yourself on a night like this? Just one?"

The baronet paused in the middle of breaking apart a long rifle with a quizzical expression. "I've got a great idea, James. The Christophers are a gang, right?"

"R...er...correct."

"I've dealt with gangs. I know gangs." The young man's mouth moved to a granite-like expression. It was further proof to the phrenologist that more evidence was needed to prove prognathus humans had higher mental facilities.1

"I've dealt with gangs, James." Sir Henry finished quietly. "They gang up for a reason. Because they are never strong enough to do anything by themselves. They bully better in numbers. They're no doubt expecting trouble, and their idea of trouble is anything bigger than themselves." He suddenly grinned without humour. "The last thing they'll expect is a single person." He wagged a friendly finger to his astonished doctor. "I need you to hold down the fort, so to speak. If luck is with the angels tonight, Baskerville Hall is about to become a very busy place, and I can't think of a better brain put to the task than yours."

"You flatter me," Mortimer protested—but in vain, as usual.

"I know you, James. You're always thinking. You think when you're asleep, I daresay." Henry Baskerville approved of a box of bullets and stuffed them into a dark canvas bag. "You've already fitted out my annex into an emergency clinic and way-station. Well...you and the Missus Mortimer can finish the job. I want my Hall ready for anything before sunrise."

"_Anything_?" James Mortimer was already setting his mind to the puzzle. It was, he resigned himself to the truth, an invariable consequence to living within a Roman Mile of a Baskerville.

"_Anything_." The baronet yanked on the bell-cord for the first available servant.

... ... ...

1Prognathus: strong-jawed. One of the stranger notions of phrenology holds that the stronger the jaw, the lower the brain's capacity for advanced thought. Weak-jawed individuals were thus considered capable of superior powers. Mr. Mortimer was a deep student of phrenology, and it must have amused his peers that his friend Sir Henry was a perfect typecast for a primitive species.

2Bathetic is the display of insincere emotions—rooted in the Greek bathos, meaning "depth."


	14. Closing In

….. ….. …..

Gregson examined the boulder with deep criticism. It was roundish, and part of a dozen lined up along the old trail. Twelve more rested on the other side. "We're getting close." He told Bradstreet. "Faster than I thought, but I expect trouble any second."

"I think the lads would be relieved." Bradstreet echoed Gregson's thoughts.

"If I have to be left behind, remember to stick to the plan." The tow-headed man shot back. "Lestrade's pretty sure the track winds up close to the Grimpen Mire, and from there to the Grimpen Station for the Medical Office of Health."

"Mortimer." Bradstreet remembered that name—but then, Mortimer was unforgettable to everyone but Mortimer.

"Yes, Mortimer." Gregson chewed on his unlit cigar. About their ankles the fog was climbing up the slopes of the Tor—he hadn't known such a thing was possible.

"Oh, my Lord." Bradstreet suddenly grabbed the blond man's arm. "Tobias. The fog's going _up_. If that's like it happens back home, we could be in real trouble."

"How so?" Gregson barely whispered.

"It means the weather's changing from somewhere else, somewhere below. Don't move, whatever you do." Bradstreet vanished into the darkness, and Gregson let him. He remained flat-footed where he was, resting on his walking-stick with his lips set tight. Behind him Bradstreet was yammering quiet commands to the rest of the men. Some odd rustling sounds, like fabric rubbing, caught the man's ears but he resolutely did not look back. It was safer for the group if he kept facing forward.

Even if one couldn't see the proverbial hand before the face. Gregson's own hands would be aching from the cold if it weren't for his lambswool gloves. The rest of his joints protested the favourtism; his knees would give out soon if he didn't rest. And yet standing still was the best he could manage.

He heard the crunch-crunch-crunch of Bradstreet's familiar boots before he saw the man. He melted into being, wrapped in a fey halo of light created by the floating water-droplets caught in the steaming glow of the bull's eye. Behind the Runner strung a dull, smothered chain of similar lights. And a dark, snakey object drooped from Bradstreet's other hand.

"Borrowed Bourne's rope." Was the explanation. "He found it in the hut, thought it would be useful, he was right. I passed a length through everyone's belts." Even as Bradstreet spoke, a curl of white flowed between the men, and the light dimmed even more. "I don't know how long it's going to be this way, it could only be a few minutes—depends on how much fog is being made-but no sense losing any of us."

"Right you are." Gregson sighed. "Well, let's keep going. Bad enough I'm walking with a third leg," he tapped the ground with his stick. "Looks like it'll have to perform as a set of eyes too." He swept the stick in a half-circle, and heard nor felt nothing, no collision of the tip. He began walking slowly in this safe zone, cautious to be certain there was earth of some kind where their next step was headed. As if to mock them, a final wave of fog rose up, high over their heads, and flowed down like rain. Rot, earth, water, sweet flowers and the taint of spoilt meat filled their world. Gregson flinched at the vapourous deluge and Bradstreet choked back a curse: ripe and rank, the stench of the Great Grimpen Mire burned their nostrils and slid down their throats.

….. ….. ….. ….. …..

Hopkins' eyes always narrowed when he thought, but they were also narrowed to minimize any telltale shine of his whites. Lestrade moved out of the way to give him a clear view, whispering directions. The younger man flopped full flat on his ribs and Lestrade pulled his hat off to shield the pocket-lamp. By now even his dark hair was cavern-white beneath, so he blended in as naturally as the cave itself. If only something could be done to lighten his eyes—it was like sharing space with a living statue.

The younger man leaned forward with his weight upon his better side. He inched to the lip of the passage, head down and barely above the ground. Dust-motes swirled into his eyes, dancing with the mist rising from his breath.

His eyes cleared. Their passage was high above the ground floor of a much larger chamber—one could play a decent game of croquet in this subterranean vault. As far as he could see, the walls were water-smoothed stone, soft and white and now dry of the underground lake it had once held.

An absurd thought emerged: He was actually thirsty. Two days of fleeing from water and now he wanted to drink it. Dove would laugh to hear him say this when he got home. So would his girls. Thoughts of them all slapped him back to the situation.

His initial impression of white glowing stone was faulty. Light shimmered from somewhere, reflecting softly against the natural paleness of the stone. Hopkins felt his brows knit up their puzzlement as he tried to cipher the source of the glow. At first it looked hopeless; the walls were smooth but uneven, and strange shadows emerged from the lumps and crevices.

The light was misleading, he saw. Closer to the ground the darker it was. And the floor wasn't smooth at all. Barrels had been rolled against the facing wall. Hastily-made wooden shelves stacked crates much like the ones they'd just looted. Odds and ends of things rested here and there like a buried trash-heap.

The men were quiet; Hopkins grew aware of them gradually. His heart thumped hard within his ribs to see new humans—but these humans were not the sort he wanted to meet just now. He studied the problem. At least it was clear-cut. There were two, sitting at a table that had begun its days as a large oaken shipping crate. They were playing a game of cards in the dingy light of a dirty little lamp, smoking heavy Spanish cigars, drinking heavily from a dark glass bottle...

...and they looked completely bored.

Lestrade pulled him back so they were completely hidden in the shadows. "There's just the two that I can see, but that's the only good news." He whispered, lips practically in Hopkins' ear to keep from being heard. "It looks like it's Jacob and Alfred."

"Alfred wouldn't be far from Oliver." Hopkins whispered back.

"He would if Oliver told him." Lestrade reminded him. "He does what Oliver says."

Hopkins took a deep breath. Alfred and Jacob were not very good. They were thick, thuggish, brutal, eager to kill beasts and the rest of the Christophers left them behind for guard duty as much as possible...unless something _very_ unpleasant was going to be done, and then the brothers were right in the thick of things. Hopkins' jaw throbbed in memory of Alfred's illegal iron truncheon against his face—a glancing blow, or Hopkins would have spat out every tooth in his mouth if he'd survived.

"Now what?" Hopkins' cast his eyes to anything that would be useful. All he could see were signs of a large number of men, recently departed. The furniture was made of crates; a shelf of the same material held an obscene amount of wine and liquor. The three books stacked on top were no doubt proof of Alfred and Jacob's half-brother, Nathan Picot—he was a learned sort of killer, and tended to help himself to anything 'interesting' when he was thieving. Books always seemed to go missing when he was around.

Nathan...something about the man caught Hopkins' memory, but he couldn't draw it in. Something about Nathan Picot and Lestrade and Murcher...he reluctantly assessed his mind, decided it would have to wait for the luxury of time, and put the matter away. For now. His eyes caught something in the shadows behind the drinkers. "Behind them...to the right. Look. Metal rings set in the wall."

"I _really_ don't like that." Lestrade's face positively burned like the thunder-god's. "What are they keeping down here that needs to be chained up?"

"Animals? People?" Hopkins shook his head. "Nothing else needs bolting to the wall."

Lestrade's face managed to turn even darker. Hopkins hadn't known that was even possible, and hoped it was because his companion was holding back on the urge to jump down and arrest two brutal killers, yelling their rights at them the whole time.

Lestrade wasn't stupid, thank God. At least according to Gregson, he wasn't _that_ stupid. But every man had cases they took too close, and one of Lestrade's was human trafficking.

Hopkins wished with all his heart another Inspector was with them in case Lestrade needed some sense kicked into his head. It was a bloody myth that that human market was prostitution; it was also drugs, unreported (and thus lawless) labour, or blackmail; it meant enforced marriages, exploitation of immigrants (especially those who couldn't speak English), and the mentally ill, physically disabled, illegal adoptions and infanticide. It could even mean religious persecution or abuse. It tempted a policeman's ethics like few other subjects.

Unfortunately for Lestrade's calm, Hopkins had the exact same struggle for composure in the face of human marketing. Together they were a proven disaster when it came to life-dealers. Hopkins swallowed hard and tried for calm. If Lestrade lost his and went for the Christophers, Hopkins just might follow with his own truncheon and hope for the best.

Relief came in the form of a short burst of swearing. The Inspectors flattened down even closer to the soft earth and held their breaths as they tried to blend inside the shadows. The tallest of the two was lumbering to his feet, slapping down a handful of cheap playing-cards. His partner snorted like a bull and held up the bottle. By the way it was being held, it was heavy enough to be nearly full.

The loser took the consolation, and drank with his head tilted back. Lestrade could see Hopkins' eyes grow wide as the big man drained half its contents—whatever it was—and set it back upon the plank top with a loud crack. With a growl he rolled his head upon his shoulders, exposing a neck that was thick as a ship's tow-rope. Tattoos lined that unwashed strip of skin.

"Alfred." Lestrade said without a word; his lips shaped the sounds. Hopkins' tightened his own mouth to agree.

Alfred wasn't just a killer; he was good at what he did. He carried at least one iron about his person and as many knives as what made him happy. Jacob was different. He liked cudgels and knuckle-dusters, things that killed by crushing.

Jacobs had to rise to get his bottle back. He did so, with a spooky laugh both men could identify in their sleep. Hopkins shuddered to hear it again. He hadn't known the man could make that sound when he wasn't killing someone.

Lestrade looked like he was thinking the same thing. He was gnawing on a thought, back and forth, eyes reduced to slits that let no light in or out.

….. ….. ….. …..

Jack was a sensible pony—quite calm and solid and patient. Sir Henry Baskerville had noticed two years ago the young colt was at his friskiest when the weather was at its absolute worst. Living in North America had given the young man a deep appreciation for toughness—American Curlies were one of his favourites even if most people had never heard of them; likewise the Seminole horse, agile as a ballet dancer. But Exmoors and Dartmoors were his first love. Even for the Exmoor breed, Jack was tough and that toughness was proving itself in his offspring. Less predictable was the toad-eye feature, and the baronet dearly hoped to put more in the bloodline. He was no scientist, just a practical man who could study and read—and observe—but until he learnt the missing piece of the puzzle, the toad-eye would be a hit or miss in the foalings.

He knew tongues wagged over at Coombe Tracey, and the horse breeders shook their heads and wondered if the young baronet had 'lost something in the translation' during his 'exile' but right now he was watching the results of his work with a pleased expression. With their favourite male taking a walk under the master's legs, the rest of the herd was out for a walk too. The ponies were barely discernible in the violet tints of the moorland under night. Sir Henry was well wrapped in oilskins that rolled and hid his outline with the same cleverness, and he made certain to relax his spine so that his body moved and shifted with that of the herd.

It was in the Baskerville Blood to be different. To Sir Henry it all made perfect sense: Killers were afoot, and by thunder, they would be looking for trouble in the form of humans, not a wandering herd of dun-coloured ponies in a land famous for wild, dun-coloured ponies!

Baskervilles took for granted they made their own way and had their own way of doing things. It was that trait that allowed them, willy-nilly, to make the leap from _Boscherville_ France off the Rouen River and to the Norman Conquest. Secretive and green, the old lands of forested Normandy had given name to the fighters: _bosche_ for 'bush' or 'wooded' and the _ville_ for the villa or town. No one knew how many of them had crossed—numbers never counted servants or distaff family, but they were all united under the name—rich and poor, vassal and noble. Herefordshire called them after William the Bastard's sword settled, and from there they journeyed to the rest of Britain.

A wandering Polish logger fresh off the pines had expressed curiosity in his name once, and explained the _bosche_ sounded very much like the _bosky_ for his language: godlike. Sir Henry had laughed long and loud in air, and when he recovered it was to explain that of all his favourite quotations, his father's had been from Francis Bacon:

"_Whosoever is delighted in solitude is either a wild beast or a god."_

The Baskervilles loved the company of their fellow man, but they equally loved the strong lands. For them a comfortable clime was in the places that were still majestic, still above man's stamp. A place where hominids lived, died, and melted back into the world that supported them. Here where the greatest mark of man's industry was in sleepy ghost-mines and watchful stone giants, he was easy.

A sudden gust of rain blew against his side and he slowly leaned into the current, pulling his oilskin tighter. The pony blinked his special eyelid downward, the 'toad eye' that let weather roll off his vision without a bother. A pity humans needed to shop for such conveniences! Sir Henry was glad of his waterproof hat.

An elderly female, his mount's grandmother, nickered petulantly. The herd began to drift to the side, and the fog was coiling; fresh fog, mixing with the falling rain and rising mist. Sir Henry could smell the beginnings of the Great Grimpen Mire, and he faced his dangerous old neighbor placidly. He was glad there was no moon tonight; there was no moon at all. The shining, silver lake was now wrapped in the invisible cloak of fairy tales.

….. ….. ….. ….. …..

"Here."

Bradstreet stopped at Gregson's low voice—it was about the only way he could tell Gregson was there—he was little more than a soft definition against similar shapes.

"What is it?"

"I thought I heard...ponies!"

"Not too surprising. Place is full of them." Bradstreet pointed out. "Probably wild ones looking for dry shelter."

"I hope so." Gregson muttered.

"As do I. No one in their right mind would be out on a night like this for decent reasons."

They waited in silence, but all they heard was their own breathing.

"The smell's getting much stronger." Gregson said at last. "But the fog's breaking too. I'm betting we'll find ourselves at the Mire when we run out of slope."

"So long as we don't fall in." Bradstreet nodded. "I'll tell the lads. Johns is complainin' of a headache, and McAdams will start coughing again if we don't get him back in the warm."

"Right." Gregson leaned briefly upon his injured leg, and scowled at his body's message.

….. ….. ….. …..

Lestrade's tactic was simple. The Christophers were drinking like proverbial oxen, and they would continue to drink until an opportunity presented itself.

Hopkins knew it was the best solution to a bad situation, but it didn't mean it was a good one. Having subdued his fair number of overly large drunks with violence, he knew alcohol could slow their thoughts and their reaction times. A club to the head might make a sot blink but not much more.

The chance came sooner than they'd expected. Jacobs noticed the bottle was passing the empty line, and got up.

"I'll be back." He promised.

Alfred squinted up at him in the light. _"You'd better!"_ He blustered as if he were talking to a lowly boot-black.

Jacobs laughed that eerie laugh again, making Hopkins shudder with nerves. He hated that sound, hated even more that the last time they'd heard him laugh, he was slowly murdering _his_ fellow policemen. The chilly hoots floated behind his wake; the big man made his way from the table, against the wall, and up a sloped path through a hand-dressed stone doorway that had blended so well into the wall that Hopkins hadn't even seen it. The effect was as drastic as if the man had walked through the stone.

_That's it._ Hopkins decided the worst. _That's it. My nerves aren't going to survive this..._

His stoic observation lasted for only a few more seconds—as long as it took him to turn his head to speak to Lestrade and find himself alone.

Hopkins felt his heart leap up and dash itself against his ribs; ice water prickled the backs of his hands—his usual response to a fright—and he saw Lestrade's gloved fingertips, barely lighter than the soft stone, vanish from the lip of the edge. Hopkins lost his breath again, and couldn't have barked a warning if he had tried, but as he leaned over the edge he saw his partner had dropped into the floor of thick dust—clay, Hopkins corrected on instinct. A floor of clay; he was lucky it wasn't packed tight!

Alfred was still leaning to the side—too drunk to be properly straight—his big hand wrapped around the bottle. It was empty, but still a large bottle, and glass was a bad thing in a fight. They'd all been forced to make bottle-knives at one time or another, and no one liked it at all.

Lestrade took it all out of the question. With room to throw, he threw. His truncheon took the back of the big man's head with excessive force (Lestrade never seemed to worry about accidentally killing killers). It was too loud; the bottle rattled from Alfred's slacked grip to rumble over the planked table, and he lurched forward just as Lestrade was running in for the kill.

Hopkins joined in. He might as well; he held his breath and pushed his thoughts aside for later, aimed with his best foot turned out, and dropped. The clay was feather-soft and nearly knocked him to his side when it gave way. Sweet-smelling powder flew into his eyes and nose; he tried to hold his breath as he limped out of the cloud, fingers locked around his walking-stick. An incredible racket erupted; despite Lestrade's sincere efforts to spare the jury's time with a trial, Alfred was alive _and_ conscious.

Alfred bellowed at the top of his lungs, but big as he was, it was to challenge the police and not call for help. Hopkins gave them both up for dead and cast about for useful weapons to buy them a few more moments of life—anyway, one never knew. They might survive this. Lestrade was swearing in a gutter _version_ of Jersey French, and Alfred was swearing it right back. Hopkins could have groaned from the frustration; he'd quite forgotten half the Christophers (including their half-brother Nathan) were pluckers preying on the people of the Channel. That meant their odd habit of singling out Lestrade and Murcher for punishment wasn't _just_ coincidence.

Jacobs staggered in, just as drunk as Alfred, his eyes wide with wonder and a full glass bottle in his left hand (Hopkins wished the man wasn't ambidextrous). At first Hopkins thought he would jump to help his mate, but, as his spirits sank, he saw Jacobs was doing no such thing.

A crafty leer spread over Jacobs' face, horrid against its cherry-red flush of drink. Crooked teeth flashed and the man folded meaty arms across his chest, laughing that awful, hooting laugh as he blocked the doorway with his gigantic body.

"Fleas come with the dog, Alfred! Give'm a good scratch!"

Alfred swore, but he was calming down as he and and Lestrade circled the plank table, both looking for an advantage without a weakness.

Jacobs caught Hopkins' eye and grinned harder. "If you want to go outside, little rabbit, you''ll have to go through me."

And that was just what Hopkins was afraid of.

Lestrade had retrieved his truncheon and had it looped back around his wrist.

"_Revenant_." Alfred swore directly at Lestrade, and Hopkins didn't know _why_ that one word in a list of foul words set Lestrade off so badly...but it did.

They'd used that word against Lestrade before, Hopkins remembered this too late to be useful as his companion launched at a man twice his size and half his age.

….. ….. ….. …..

Gregson gagged, slapping his glove over his face—it smelled a little better than the rank coming off the Mire. It had to be the Great Grimpen Mire. Nothing _else_ would suit the description.

"Good Heavens." Bradstreet muttered from deep within his dark muffler. Gregson covetously thought it was good of him not to point out how his frogged jacket gave him better freedom of movement than his own heavy dust-coat. "That's a perfume."

"We've got to be close." Gregson whispered. "Nothing would smell like this in Nature if we weren't on top of it." He tapped the earth with his stick cautiously. _Tink-tink_, the dry wood met hard rock. Gregson examined the stone as best as he could. "We must be half way through the Mark-Stones."

"Good."

It happened sooner than they thought. One moment they were all fighting to move down a soggy slope without falling down, and the next, the slope almost evened out. They were standing on a peculiar expanse of grassy turf, strangely level and smooth. An owl was calling; it flew close enough to make the more city-bred police flinch up.

"_That was scared up from over the stones."_ Bradstreet hissed. _"Something's up there!" _

"_We don't have much time."_ Gregson hissed back. He pitched his voice: _"All right, lads. Ready when you are, and I'm ready! Move fast!"_

….. ….. ….. …..

Hopkins made a plebeian mistake in his attempts to help. He stepped to the side and his entire body went down, hard. He swore, remembering his sprain too late. A metal chain scraped his ribs through layers of cloth, and Jacobs laughed almost fondly, as if he approved of a pointless show of spirit in the face of doom.

Hopkins saw red. He rose up, hands clutched around the length of cold iron, just as Lestrade collided with Alfred.

Hopkins felt his heart stop again, but it was his own fault. He'd quite forgotten Lestrade had been up against bigger people all his life.

The old Yarder bared his teeth and dropped his hands straight down, flipping the heavy plank upon its side. Alfred squawked to find a table weighing a good hundred pounds tipping over—the lip smashed his toes through his brogans, and he openly howled. The fluttering light burst and hot oil smoked over the bigger man's shirt-front. It caught upon the spilled playing-cards and tiny bonfires burst across the wreckage.

Jacobs laughed louder than ever.

Alfred went berserk. He lunged awkwardly across the table's ruin before completely freeing his feet; no doubt he expected his longer arm to reach Lestrade, but it didn't.

Lestrade was already bringing his truncheon up; he smashed the bones in the back of Alfred's hands with a single blow—too fast for the man to feel anything—and sent the blunt end into his chin. Alfred's head snapped back with a crack and he collapsed gracelessly upon the table's wreckage.

Hopkins had used the distraction wisely. The chain was not long but it was heavy; he pulled it back and sent the links flicking at Jacobs' face—the man flinched back on reflex, right into Lestrade's kick of the knee.

Hopkins decided he was turning into a seasoned old veteran if he could hear the snap of a knee and the scream of pain without flinching. He was rather pleased with himself.

He was surprised when Lestrade coolly strolled around the pile of Alfred and table, and knocked Jacobs unconscious with a second blow to the back of the head.

Lestrade straightened, panting hard. He made a face as his back complained from the abuse of the fight. "Big, clumsy giants." He rasped, wiped his face clumsily with his dusty sleeve. "Nothing like making them think they've got under your skin to win a fight...Eh?" He took in Hopkins' face.

"You put him out?" Hopkins stared.

"Common sense." Lestrade shrugged. "I wasn't feeling charitable about putting him out of his pain for a bit...There might be someone who hadn't heard the brawl yet...but anyway, _I_ didn't want to hear him screaming any louder than I had't'." He scowled and rubbed at his ear. "I'll _probably_ tell the court I felt sorry for him being in pain."

"True." Hopkins admitted. "They'll be out the way they are...I wonder how we can keep them out of the—aha." He grinned and hobbled to the end of the wall where the iron rings were set. "Is that a padlock I see?"

"Watch your sprain, Stanley..." Lestrade grumbled but obligingly dragged the Christophers, one by one, to the wall. Stanley managed a decent set of manacles with Lestrade's Derbies and stepped back to admire his work. "Not bad." Lestrade approved.

"Drunk as they are, I'm sure they'll sleep it off." Hopkins sighed. "At least we can finish picking our way upstairs, eh?"

"Everyone else must be off tracking the others down." Lestrade was uneasy. He looked hard about the room, but Hopkins couldn't see what was worrying him. "What is that?" he whispered harshly.

"What's what?" Hopkins asked, even as he breathed through his nose and caught something that shouldn't have been there. He froze and sniffed again, slowly.

The men stared at each other in the pitiful light.

"That smells like blood." Lestrade said quietly.

"Old blood." Hopkins agreed. "I'd know it anywhere." Blood was the first thing to spoil. In cases of murder, it was often the smell of blood, not the body itself, that alerted one to something wrong.

"Give me a hand." Lestrade hurried back to the side of the cavern-wall from their emergence. "If I lift you up, can you grab Roger's lamp? I have a feeling we're going to need it."


	15. Horrible Geology

….. ….. …..

Gregson was reluctantly impressed when Nature was like the Great Grimpen Mire: awe-inspiring in its unconquerable force. It was probably (according to Bradstreet's sarcastic observation), one overwhelming force saluting another.

He watched as the men worked quickly, worried that the slightest gleam of metal off their dark helmets would become a marksman's target. He worried about the shine of their belts, and the gleam of their brass buttons. In short, he worried because he couldn't keep himself busy and help them, so he watched them with only half an eye—the rest of him was turned outward, seeking traces of their followers.

Another owl yapped, _kiew-kiew_, and flew over Gregson's head—a tiny brown ball swallowed up into the ruddy yellow mist. It was gone almost as soon as Gregson saw it; the fog was growing thicker; they couldn't see more than the hands before their faces, and there was no moon to show them the whiteness of the world. The fog reflected the burning lights off their lanterns. And it was picking up speed against a wind they could feel. The air strangled upon the soft, sticky rankness of unchecked growth and rot; bog-water and tannins and decay rose and fell upon them like a strangling rain.

He could barely see the men, but he could hear what they were doing, and he'd permit himself to relax as soon as the last box was tended—but even as he was thinking this

Gregson told himself he was too old to get stage-fright now, but his heart hammered in the frail bars of its bone cage as he huddled up against a freezing-cold boulder of dark grey stone. It wept great drips of collected fog, but he was fast losing his strength to stand. The walk had tired him. His traitorous leg throbbed and burned...it was a miracle he hadn't crushed the muscles, but the tendons felt bruised—or whatever the fancy word the doctors used. If he wasn't careful he'd certainly cause more damage. He wasn't the young man that could squander his powers on the whims of his duty.

They'd as much as agreed to end their own careers tonight—he and Roger and Geoffrey. Stanley _might_ be salvageable. It was all necessary if they were to save the PCs from the consequence of this night and their taking on the responsibility of a problem much larger than themselves.

Stanley Hopkins was the wild card in this. He was an Inspector, but no one wanted to see him fall with the others. He would no doubt protest until he went blue in the face and try his best to go down with them...but the hard truth was incontestable: Hopkins was their best hope for the next generation. Even if (despite all drunken bets and clear-eyed analysis) he stayed an Inspector, he was still the best bridge between the past and the present.

Gregson wasn't certain how they were going to save Hopkins tonight, but he would do his best to try—just as he knew Lestrade was going to do his best to teach the man how to navigate the dark channels of stone, and Roger would do his best to make sure Hopkins missed blame in the paperwork that was sure to follow this night.

It did not escape his cold calculations that Hopkins' sense of honour would demand he fall with the rest of his companions. The trick would be to arrange matters so that Hopkins would stand innocent and wondering as the rest of them fell to ruin.

_He'll have our guts for braces._ Gregson tried not to think of how much that bothered him, but it did. Hopkins would never forgive them. They'd be lucky if he smiled at them on the street as they stood in the charity lines for used clothing and watery soup.

"Sir." Radford whispered frantically. "It's done. The boxes?"

Gregson pulled his mind to the present. There was always time to return to the plots of the future. "Keep to the plan." He whispered back. "You know what to do, and I hope to God you know how to do it!"

Radford gulped at being chastised, but nodded in the smoked light of the tiny lamps. He turned his back and went to help his mates. It was an eerie effect: Radford's helmet caught the glows until his uniform vanished, and then it looked as though his body had just gone away and a will 'o the wisp remained. Gregson waited, watched and waited as he rested upon the stone. The enemy was coming. He could feel it. He knew it as clearly as he knew as the moment of years past when he'd been pinned down in a den in London, waiting for a rescue to come. He'd been bleeding to death through the arm at that time, but for some reason, the Yard had noticed the clues and they'd ran to the den in time. Gregson had considered himself surprised to wake up at St. Bart's alive and in possession of all his limbs.

Gregson tended to avoid thinking of his moments of mortality at every chance. It wasn't that he was in denial of the way of the corpse; it was more the fact that he considered himself the only nexus of his tiny family. Without him, his wife and unofficially adopted son (although Toby would call himself an adopted squirrel) would be forced to seek _assistance_ in survival. It was a nauseating thought.

A stone rattled and clattered; the men froze, listening in the stillness as one stone followed another. Clack-clack-clatter...

Splash.

And a human voice, demanding their attention.

Bradstreet turned his big body to face Gregson's. The two men looked each other in the eye with faces of stone. It had started.

….. ….. …... …... …...

It was blood; no question.

The smell lurked between themselves and the way out. It grew stronger, mixed with oily wood-smoke as they hobbled up a coiling path that went upward a few degrees at a time. The stone walls loomed yards over their heads, high enough that their lamp simply ran out of light to give, and soft darkness took over.

The men were less affected by being small presences in this silent world of tilting stone; they were accustomed to the way the buildings of London scraped against each other, shoulder to shoulder, until there was barely enough room to move. For them it was oddly familiar to walk amongst natural stone instead of fitted stone or brick. The air grew heavy...and damp. The smokey blood-smell was getting thicker...but so was the air itself.

A crevice deep in the wall showed two more bottles like the ones the thugs had been drinking: a personal cache of liquor and wine. The small, light bottles shelved on the walls had been finer and expensive.

"I suppose they weren't stupid enough to drink their own contraband." Hopkins whispered sarcastically.

"Pity." Lestrade whispered back in the same tone. "Some of those German brews are harder on the brain than gin."

"Ugh." Hopkins didn't like that thought very much.

Damp air carried smells much easier. Hopkins caught himself swallowing, trying to get the taint of the air out of his mouth. Water was nearby, but so was the slaughterhouse stench. He could taste the sweetness of wet clay in the back of his throat. Lestrade was silent as the stones, but his scowl caught arrows in the glow of the pocket-lamp, jagged and sharp.

Neither man bothered with speaking the obvious: this passage was far too narrow to transport all the goods they'd seen in the underground warehouse. There _had_ to be another way out. With luck they weren't taking a wrong road.

Lestrade suddenly sighed as if a thought had hit him. He gave Hopkins the lamp to carry, pulling out his truncheon and one of the knives they'd "liberated" from the Christophers. They fell into step side by side, Lestrade slightly behind the younger officer.

Hopkins was one of those rare men who never thought much about his size against others. He was smaller than what was considered noble; it didn't bother him. But when he was with Lestrade, he was aware—consciously-that they were both small, and that Lestrade, unlike common conceit, felt his smallness was pure advantage. In this situation he was properly right: they could easily move together in this serpentine road, side by side, and not quarrel for space.

Lestrade was right about the ancient people. They had to have been _very_ small, or thought in small terms. A chip of stone here and there, a smoothing of a roughness—marked people who only cleared paths where they had to clear. They'd had no use for clearing past a certain point above Hopkins' ears. It made the Crane smile to think of how he and Lestrade would be thought of as tall to their eyes. Men like Bradstreet and Gregson (who would have had to walk sideways through half of this), would have been, in Lestrade's own words: "Big clumsy giants."

The path scored up again; long ago this underground stream had suddenly gone down, 'burying its head' to use an old-timer's phrasing. Going up was easier on Hopkins' ankle. There were enough uneven stones that he could brace his balance as he went along. The stick was more familiar in his hands now; he felt as though he could fight with it if need be. They reached an odd little stone in the middle of the trail—it looked like a knife-blade, sharp side up, and coiled along with the high-looming walls.

They heard the flies before they saw them.

Lestrade paused, and they both stopped to listen. Long minutes passed as they quietly breathed, waiting for any other sign of life. There was nothing—no challenge, no sound. They looked at each other. Lestrade nodded and the crept forward, one step at a time.

The walls parted like a book, pale under the oozing light of torches, and they stepped into a nightmare.

Flies moaned as their lantern added to the false light of the small chamber. Here the underground river had spun in a long-ago whirlpool; the room was rounded from the ageless scrape of water, and grew larger the further up it went. It was the size of a tenant's single-room flat, and a trickle of shining water along the back wall made it cold.

All the men could see was a stone floor blackened with dried blood and moving with flies and maggots. The light disturbed the insects, and they swarmed. Hundreds upon hundreds of flies swept past, stirring the air with their passage and leaving the pallid maggots to writhe in the blood of dead men.

Lestrade didn't get sick, though it was a close thing for him.

Hopkins did.

Lestrade swallowed hard, over and over, and tried his best to hold the younger man steady while he shuddered out the last of his supper.

"Shouldn't've...had...that...tea." Hopkins apologised with streaming eyes. He wiped his face on his arm and tried not to smell the foul air.

"They must have killed them here." Lestrade tried to speak without moving his lips. He did the best he could. "...said their skulls were flat."

"That isn't just _blood_." Hopkins was in control of himself now that his guts couldn't distract him. He nodded, old-fashionedly, using his chin to point instead of his fingers. "Those are brains against the wall there. What do you think? Did they expect the rains would make everyone think the blood was washed clean off the bodies?"

"I don't know. Morelike they thought the animals would get to them first." Lestrade said hopelessly. "If there's anything like a wild boar to find them... they'll do what they can to get to a body." Sometimes, Bradstreet's hatred of pork made sense. "They must have bled them out somehow to make it neater when they dragged them out."

Hopkins gulped again at the thought, even though he'd been thinking the same thing. "Didn't we find one of the Thames victims with a throat sliced from the _inside_?"

"Shived down the mouth." Lestrade nodded. "The rats got most of him, but not enough to fool the examiner." He set his own mouth and suddenly looked like an old man. "I think I've lived too long." He muttered. "I actually didn't flinch to think of that."

Hopkins nodded. He felt the same way. "We must be close. Once we get to the surface, what shall we do?"

"Get our bearings first." Lestrade blinked his aching eyes. "If I can figure out where we are, I can get us out of here...assuming we don't take the same path the Christophers took."

They set off silently, gloomier than ever even though they knew they were a short distance from freedom. This was only the short part of the trip after all.

A cool breeze picked up and blew down the passage. It felt like heaven after the close-set horror behind their backs. They breathed out, emptying their lungs, and filled them again with something far cleaner. Hopkins felt his pulse quicken at the thought of being back on the surface of the earth. He wanted to move faster, but wasn't unprofessional enough to give in to his impulses.

But he smiled as they paused at a fresh opening, a turn in the stone. Mist was curling on the fringes of the lantern-light. That meant they were as good as outside...

Lestrade paused, and Hopkins sensibly lowered his light, hiding it in the folds of his coat. Lestrade edged out around the bend, his dark eyes peering left and right, up and down for signs of any light; that would show the Christophers better than anything.

He paused again.

Hopkins waited, wishing his breath wasn't so very loud in his ears.

Lestrade wasn't moving.

Finally, Hopkins couldn't take it. He clicked his tongue once, as softly as possible. It was a question.

"Go ahead." Lestrade told him. He sounded defeated. Defeated?

Swallowing, Hopkins stepped forward, lifting his lantern high. Something cracked under his soles; he glanced down. Shards of pale stone ground and crushed under his weight.

The younger man held up his single flame as high as he could go.

It was a horror of geology.

Instead of the comfort of the surface, they were inside a gigantic bowl of bald-scraped stone. Man's tools and hands had chipped and hacked long lines of rock straight up to a point far above their heads. Hopkins hobbled to the middle of the bowl, aiming the lantern in all directions. A few tiny trees struggled to grow out of meagre cracks in the icy rock. He couldn't see much; the bowl was large—large enough to nestle a full-sided tenant building—and the mist—the mist-

"Bloody hell." Lestrade summed it up from behind him.

The mist was pouring down from the top of the bowl—wherever the top was—with all the force of a heavy wave of water. As they watched, it rolled and tumbled, heavier than the surrounding air, and collapsed upon the rough-tossed floor of the bowl, which he could now see as a travelling hazard of loose-tossed shards of stone.

"Bits and pieces of an old quarry... Nothing else would leave scoil like this..." Lestrade picked up a shard of the stone and let it drop, bewildered. "I know where we are now...unless there's more than one 'quarry' on this side of the Tor...but I don't understand this, Hopkins. What would they be doing around an old quarry?"

"Dartmoor only looks quiet on the surface," Hopkins reminded him. He felt better for saying anything. "Seems like there's an awful lot going on underground. And isn't there some beer stone quarrying going on? This looks like Beer Stone."

"I'm a cider drinker." Lestrade muttered. "I don't really know one rock from another."

Hopkins grinned lightly. "Well, I know my beer. If you see stone this colour, and if you see crushed shells innit, chances are good you've got a seam of beer stone." He rubbed a shard between his fingers, showed a layer of soft white dust in his whorls. "They've been mining this stone since the Romans, it's one of the reasons why there were so many of the fellows running around on this side."

"An awful lot of trouble for stone," Lestrade frowned.

"When they cut it from the living walls, it's so soft you can do just about anything with it. I knew fellows who bragged about cutting this stuff out with nothing more than a saw! Hard to believe, but once it hit the open air, it turned into the real hard-as-a-rock rock. Churches loved them. Half the churches back home are made of stone like this." He sighed, feeling more of his age than he wanted to feel.

"We can't be far from some sort of civilisation if that's the case." Lestrade was wearing his put-out look of very hard-earned patience. "They wouldn't go through the trouble of cutting out all this stone if it was just in the middle of nowhere." He blew out his breath, sounding much like a spavined horse. "Sir Henry might have to add a few things to that map of his," he said in a rather unkind voice.

"Somewhere in all this tangle of Dartmoor, we have naptha, peat digging, herders, and mad naturalists." Hopkins reminded him. "Eventually we will run into somebody, somewhere."

"Well we won't run into anyone at all if we don't do our part." Lestrade rubbed his gloved hands together, thinking. "The fog's filling up the bowl like a sponge, so we should think about getting out of here. This is too much like being caught in a ratter's pit."

Hopkins turned as pale as the mist at the _aptness_ of the sentence. "There's got to be a way out of here. They didn't fly."

Lestrade sniffed at the thought of Christophers with wings—they weren't nearly close enough to the angels. His hand rested absently upon the old truncheon kept at his side. Hopkins wished the man would carry a more resilient and modern example, but Lestrade was, alas, a stubborn man and strangely attached to the old thing.

"I'm going to pull out another light," he said at last, and pulled out two of the candles in his pockets. "You start on one end, I'll start on the other. We'll go until we meet each other, or something's found."

"Wise." Hopkins agreed. He traded the candle in the lamp for a fresh one and the two slowly moved their way against the edges of the stone bowl.

Almost instantly, Lestrade called for Hopkins. "I found something!"

Hopkins hobbled over as quickly as he could. "That was quick!"

"Don't cheer just yet." Lestrade warned—as if they'd found much of any reason to cheer thus far. He stepped to the side to let Hopkins get a clear view.

Hopkins swallowed hard. He reluctantly looked up. And up. And up.

"_Oh, Heavens."_ He said faintly.

"Worse than the stone steps of Skellig Michael!" Lestrade agreed. Hopkins knew just enough about the isle that he knew that was very, very bad indeed. He was impressed. Very grudgingly impressed. "Must've taken years to cut it out of the stone."

"They should have cut a few years more. We'll need our tip-toes!" Hopkins had noted a tough-looking iron bolt hammered into the rock. "Look at that." He stuck his finger through the eye of the bolt. Lestrade saw another one a little more than a yard up, waist-level to the rising steps. "Want to bet when they need the steps, they thread a rope through the eyes? And when they don't need it..."

"They just coil up the rope and take it with them." Lestrade was gritting his teeth. "It is _not_ going to be easy to get up _that_."

Hopkins hadn't been looking forward to this. "There might be another way out."

"We'll look, just in case. But if not...we're going to have to be clever."

Hopkins didn't like being clever. He tended to second-guess himself—at least, that was what he believed. "All right, let's go."

….. ….. …... …..

"Halloa, Scotland Yard!"

The police went according to the dwindling aspects of their superiors' plans and stood absolutely still. McAdams and Johns obeyed (reluctantly) a significant glare from Gregson and sat down on a broken menhir, sweating with exhaustion.

Silence. The rattle of stones had faded, but now they could hear the foot-steps against the eroded soil.

"Scotland Yard!"

Gregson decided to get on with it. "Who is it?" He yelled back.

"That's better."

One by one, rough-dressed men melted into view. The weapons in their hand were not rifles. That mattered little in Gregson's scheme of things—the long clubs were deadly enough at close range and they were outnumbered—even with Lestrade and Hopkins and Johns and McAdams in full power, they were still outnumbered.

….. ….. ….. ….. …...

Lestrade went first.

Hopkins was freshly disgusted at his injury, but it was true that he couldn't make a job that required all four limbs—and perhaps a few of his teeth while he was at it.

Lestrade had very few illusions about the stupidity of his actions. He would have to leave the lamp behind; he would have to feel by hand, and he would have to remember that he wasn't so very fond of shaky architecture. This, he thought, was architecture at its shakiest.

"I'll go first next time." Hopkins tried to make a joke as Lestrade took off his dust-coat, jacket, and the outer strap he carried for his truncheon. He decided to leave his waistcoat on and stuffed his lighting-kit into its inner pocket. The cold air nipped through the fine weave of his shirt-Clea would not be pleased to see the state of his laundry. He was glad of the wool vest slaking the worst of the chill.

"I'm quite used to it." Lestrade sighed. "There are only two different kinds of Lestrades in the world, Hopkins—the criminal element, and then there's the disreputable element."

Hopkins bared his teeth in sympathy, knowing the euphemism for _performers_. "So where do you put yourself?" He had to ask.

Lestrade chuffed as if he was—absurd thought—actually fond of him. "I never did learn how to walk the wire," he said absently. "Knew mamm would have a thunder if she heard about it. But there was plenty of call for a juggler or a tumbler."

Hopkins hoped that would come in handy if Lestrade slipped. The steps were little more than places to brace the toes; the short iron bolts would be essential to keep Lestrade from slipping on the slippery stone. That was assuming, of course, that Lestrade could manage to get from bolt to bolt.

The older man took a deep breath and muttered something that was probably not very complimentary or graceful, and made his first, cautious step up the rock wall. He was thankful for his shoes, which were his rougher half-boots to brace his inward twist...they were more flexible than the nightmares the Bobbies had on their poor feet—no more useful than wearing boxes, they were.

He made it to the first bolt—but the bolt alone was too short for a real grip. He needed every inch he could steal from the narrow foot-holds. Lestrade thought the quarry must have ruined the original way in and out when they closed down—sometimes good stone was harvested to the last scrap. He didn't know as much as Hopkins about rock, but he knew that much.

The rock was slick. The dust of the cave slowly wetted to slimy clay. He finally stopped and collected his breath. A nightjar yammered somewhere above his head—most likely disturbed from something. Lestrade would have given much to see, but it was all blackest night without the lantern.

He needed to rest. The past few days were catching up to him with the speed of the Flying Scotsman. He closed his eyes a moment, blinking sweat from his eyes (he couldn't lift his hand to wipe his face). And as he rested, his mind cast back upon a stray thought:

Where _was_ the rope?

He didn't recall seeing rope at any point of time in the cave.

The Christophers had to use a rope to make the steps work. That meant...that meant they owned a rope somewhere. He thought hard, going back in his memory.

He knew his memory had flaws. He envied Sherlock Holmes his ability to collect the smallest details of every inch of room in a single sweep of the eye. _He_ had to go over things, bit by bit and step by step. If he'd had Mr. Holmes' ability he would have never fallen for Oldacre's planted fingerprint at Norwood.

But if he committed something to memory, he never forgot it.

_Think_.

He started moving again, slowly, inch by inch up the wet stone. His fingers were closing around the stalk of the eye-bolt just as something gave under one toe-tip. He slipped. Below he heard Hopkins' choked-back gasp, a yell strangled in his throat. _Good man—doesn't want to shout where we are..._ Lestrade had the presence of mind to think that as he dangled with the laws of gravity.

**Storeroom. Far end. Barrels. Two, four, six, eight—eight barrels. 36 Imperial Gallons. Beer Barrel Sizings. Table. Table made of crates. Five chairs. Made of crates. Shelves against wall. Poorly made. Quickly done. Stacked four deep. Crates on shelves. Broken. Like the ones in the cache but smaller. Empty. Lamp on table. Playing cards. Glass wine jar. Metal rings set into wall. Four. Iron chain.  
**

Lestrade went through the inventory in his head as his free hand went to his mouth, gripped the tips of his glove with his teeth and pulled it free. _To hell with it..._He spat the glove into space._  
_

**Starboard wall. Shelves of imported drink. Barrels. More bottles and jugs of drink. Dust heavy. Everything neatly placed. Neat wall but messy floor. Rubbish thrown about. Coil of wire in far corner of shelf. Three books. Stacked on top. **

His bare hand struck a spur of rock—a slightly longer jut of stone. There.

**Larboard wall. Dark and murky. Floor sloped up. Lumber stacks—shelving. Lots of shelving. Pallets. Crates. Long crates. Broken. Ten. Empty. Torch-sconces against top of stacks. **

**Crates. How many crates?**

That might be important...

Lestrade didn't frown when he was climbing—pouring energy into one's expression was a guarantee of taking strength from the rest of your body. When they trained the Bobbies they made them hold a typewriter straight out in front of their body. They would hold the weight confidently, even smugly, until the trainer said, "Now grit your teeth." They would obey...only to go from gritting to gaping as the strength left their arms.

So he didn't frown...but he desperately wanted to, because he was counting back in his head and there were at least ten crates on two of the sides of the roughly rectangle cavern room. Twenty empty crates...broken crates.

**Candles? None seen.**

**Lamps? None seen but the one on the table.**

**Sources of light? None seen.**

His left toe-tip caught the lip of a rock. Perfect. He leaned into the ledge, found another spur for his right.

**No rope seen.**

**No lights seen.**

**No food seen.**

**No supplies.**

If this was an underground hideout for swag... swag was supposed to be separate from the rest of property. It was common London-criminal-grade sense.

Property was the most common source of crime in London. You didn't mix your property with the property you were stealing. Someone could figure out too much of you if they came in on the swag; they could not only steal back your stolen goods, but they'd take the rest too. You didn't mind if the police examined your rightful property...but they'd notice if you had stolen goods with it.

Somewhere, the Christophers had rope, lights, and food and whatever else they needed. This cave chamber was no more than an underground river, opened up by the work of the quarry. They used it for storage and murder, but nothing else.

It would explain why Nathan Picot's half-brothers were guarding the goods. They could be trusted to do that much without burning down the cave...Lestrade didn't think those mental giants were up to much besides mayhem and drunken-

His fingers caught on rock, and he clutched out, trying to find the next step.

There was no step. The stone was smooth and slick, but he had reached the top.

Lestrade hoped the worst was over. Now he had to find a way to get Hopkins up.


	16. Killing Jars

….. ….. …..

"_We had arranged no plan of campaign, but the baronet is a man to whom the most direct way is always the most natural."_

-Dr. John Watson, The Hound of the Baskervilles

The toad eyed pony was impossible for fences, so Sir Henry never bothered with limiting the solid animal. Despite this mischief Jack was a reliable sort. His toad-eye gave him far more confidence in his walk against poor weather, and the rest of the herd followed his example. It amused the baronet that among the ponies, Jack was as high up as his rider was among his neighbors. It also amused him that he was a name for the ponies as his neighbors were known for their horses.

Being relatively young into his title, Sir Henry was exceedingly conscious. He knew it was not a particularly charitable nor a coveted position when the responsibility was weighed against the advantages. Alas that his uncle had raised the family fortunes so highly before his murder; it was right that he had been spending it wisely for the betterment of Dartmoor...but Sir Henry had large shoes to fill and little experience with being in such a position. Most men of his title were twenty years older than he was today before they were surprised into their inheritance. He did not envy these men anything more than the chance for experience. He felt as though he had precious little to brag about, and he missed the chance to do something with his own hands.

Mr. Mortimer would be shaking his head right now, his lips thinned in good humour as he peered over the tops of his delicately rimmed spectacles. He would be rolling himself a pencil-thin cigarette in his long fingers—one-handed if the other hand was invoked with writing one of his endless notes. In his crackling voice he'd caution Sir Henry caution and conservatism, to wait for more men before he delved fully into the moor.

But if Dr. Watson would be here...he knew the doctor would be more than happy to ride with him and face the obstacle like a champion.

Sir Henry hadn't known the man for long, but some men...they didn't need a long time to _know_. They might surprise you every day of your life, but you would still get their fundamental nature. He wished the distances were not so far apart; paper was a poor substitute for friendship.

_If I do survive this, I'll write him,_ Sir Henry promised himself. _Now to make sure I do survive!_

The land dipped in degrees, and it grew mushy, but even though the earth sponged about the hooves of the ponies, it held firm. The young baronet half-held his breath because he was going by memory and it was foolish to rely on one's memory too much in times of war. He didn't want to walk straight into the Mire, so he had to trust himself as much as he trusted Jack.

Sir Henry slowed Jack as they followed the shape of the earth. The herd blended into their lead with a multiple dance of grace and silence. They kept calm and on occasion, they dipped their strong necks down and he heard the champ of powerful teeth as they harvested soft grasses. That was one reason why he liked the ponies of this ancient land; they had their own sense, and it was tied clearly into the earth. If a man of Dartmoor was bound to his soil, the beasts were civil extensions of the forces that flowed beneath the grass.

They passed a clump of last winter's tithe: the mortling kine1 stretched withered skeletons in a field of speckled tath2. Sir Henry's night-trained eyes took in the familiar sights of gape-jawed skulls, slowly de-fleshing against the mark of time. Time and insects. Hollow sockets stared, black and senseless at the living as they passed. The ponies never blinked as they walked past the silent husks of their passed relatives. Something in Sir Henry felt it was just their knowing these family members were no longer party to their council. The ponies quietly stepped around the bones of the youngest calf, the leg-bones and ribs scattered from the attention of the detested wild boar, or, less detested, the shadowy red fox.

They kept down, one degree at a time.

Long ago, the Great Grimpen Mire had been much larger than it was now. It was hard to believe, but the Mire was a shadow of its former fey glory today. To the newcomer's eyes it was a gigantic lake, smooth and flat and birthing the fogs of night that turned it all into a giant illumed mirror under the shroud-strangled moon. But Sir Henry was a Baskerville, and Baskervilles were Dartmoor's mood and moor and Mire. To his senses they were riding across the lip of the original Mire's boundaries...a demarcation line between solid earth and rock, and something that used to be soft sucking bog.

A cold-season bat swept past the man's head, chipping once with a tiny throat. Flying mice, he thought, recalling from some distant memory...his father? His father calling the bat the flying mouse, just as the owl was the flying cat.

And there was a flying cat: He heard a fog-muffled warble; a disturbed barn owl, but the sound was quickly swallowed in the throat of the swelling fog.

He touched his toes to Jack's flank and the pony stopped dead in his tracks. The herd paused too, milling here and there but never moving past a close distance from their leaders. The combined heat of their bodies rose soft plumes of steam into the night, mixing with the fog.

After some thought, Sir Henry turned Jack to the outer edge, just a bit. He let the pony go, and they continued on their new course. This would be a slower way of getting around the Mire, but there was no sense coming this far just to take chances.

Grimpen Mire was once the heart of the land...but there was no sense in being foolhardy to the Mire's glory days. It was eternally dangerous.

Not long after returning home, Sir Henry went into his notes for the story behind the name. It was a neat answer, and a cautionary one. The earliest name of the Mire was from the Celtic _penn_, meaning _head; hill;_ sometimes _chief_ (as in King Arthur's father, Arthur Pen Dragon). The replacement Old English merely kept the _penn_ for in their tongue it meant _enclosure; a place to keep animals._ Old remains and bones upon the stone huts had proved beyond a doubt that the village in the heart of the mire had been a place of refuge; food and food-animals had thrived within the small definitions and enemies had not wished to brave the much-larger sea of death for the luxuries resting in its heart.

So much for the _pen_ in _Grimpen_. The first part of the name was appropriately atmospheric. Here and there, speckled across the rural portions of the country were names with _Grim_ or _Grimm_. _Grim_ had been a desirable name for its meaning: _"Fierce One"_ and the Dark Ages had been a fierce time for a fierce name. On the surface it was simple enough: Grim's Hill or Grim's Enclosure...but when a man died under questionable circumstance he was demoted from the status of the commonly dead to the restless dead.

There were no Christian tombs, no Christian marks in the Mire. No sign of Holy burial or script. No cross was cut even upon the stateliest of stone pillars, nothing older than two generations. But there were many, many barrows and kistvaens and Hollow Hills.

After years of struggling with mind and instincts, Sir Henry had settled into an optimistic agnosticism. It was this mindset that allowed him to settle upon the current conclusion of the meaning of Grimpen Mire: That the dead were deemed restless and possibly damned because the Church did not often favour recognition for those who were buried before its coming. In dusty old church records there were entries (here and there) of priests who refused prayers over the Neolithic Dead on the grounds that they were not Christian. They therefore could not rest, could not be anything but the unfinished ghosts. As a final shred of proof...the people of Dartmoor chose to avoid the centre of the Mire. Stapleton had been the exception but he was the outsider, not the native son.

But Sir Henry was a Baskerville. They damned God when it suited them. They spoke for God when it suited them...and he, the last of the Baskervilles...did neither. He was a man who faced forward with the march and gave God the courtesy of acting like He knew what he was doing.

Lestrade was having a hard time of it. The fog was a living thing before him, as bad as any London Particular, and he batted angrily at it as he struggled across piles of scoil and sherds of rock in his search for a rope or other means by which Hopkins could get to the top of the quarry-pit.

He needed to find something, and soon. Hopkins was in a killing jar in the bottom of that hewn bowl.

Sir Henry's map was clear enough in his head, but he didn't know exactly where he was at the edge of the tiny black dot on that map. Quarries, he remembered vaguely, had small out-buildings to secure tools of the trade. They wouldn't leave explosive materials or sharp methods of mayhem out for the public's mischief...and even a closed quarry would still keep things on the property.

_Especially a place like Dartmoor, where people go missing and search parties need supplies..._

Lestrade swung his hand out again in temper, and the edge of his fingers barely scraped something hard and cold. His heart paused in its beat; he stopped in his half-shuffling steps and reached out again, slowly. It was cold and smooth and wept icy dew.

Slate.

That didn't make one scrap of sense.

Lestrade's brows crimped in the middle of his forehead in bafflement. He slowly ran both hands over the surface of the straight, smooth object. Slate. He walked slowly around the rounded structure, keeping his hands on it the whole time. Slate. Why would someone clad an old rounded hut in a skin of slate? He wasn't sure what the sense of it was—why use perfectly sound roofing tile in such a way? And yet there it was.

He was starting to get a little tired of all the mysteries in Dartmoor. With great good luck neither Gregson nor Sherlock Holmes would ever know about this...

At the end of the circuit he found weather-softened wood, much swelled from moisture and loose with splinters. It was still solid oaken wood, and wouldn't break easily. Bitterly cold metal showed him where the hinges were, and a plated lock. He tapped the plate with a bit of rock and got a ring: brass. Brass against the rust of the air. The hinges rang the same.

Hinges on the outside...like that of a gaol door.

The ageing detective huffed under his breath, deliberately abandoning one more mystery in face of practical action. He found an appropriately-size rock and nearly shattered it against the top hinge.

So he dropped it and sought another. It broke as well. Lestrade growled through his teeth. Stone usually lost the war against metal, but he'd best find some way of getting around this.

_Hopkins is in a killing jar, and we don't have much time._

His hands shook at the fear looming over his shoulders. Hopkins was trapped like a rat in the bottom of a bowl, and he wouldn't be able to get to safety in the water-passage in time if they were attacked. He had to hope he was spending his time usefully, getting open this bloody hut and finding the tools he needed to pull the man up.

….. ….. ….. …...

"_Stop where you are!"_

As one the police stopped and slowly turned their backs to the Mire. The lanterns were just as slowly lowered to the earth, where they did very little good. Mounds of soft yellow light glowed against their legs and stopped just at the hems of their heavy coats. Once in a while, the glint of metal buttons winked in movement, but that was all. Bradstreet was completely invisible in his earthy-coloured plainclothes. Gregson knew he couldn't say the same. His fading yellow hair was a liability in dark conditions. Ah, well.

Brighter lights—much brighter—gleamed and peered from the higher lands. They cast like light-houses over a cork-screwed path not far from the path the policemen had taken. Gregson silently cursed; the enemy's choice of trail was well sheltered with large stones and even had they been armed, they would have been hard-pressed to shoot accurately past that natural fence.

Two lights; three. Four. Gregson silently counted to six. Yes, a much bigger group than themselves. What a surprise.

"Gregson!"

Gregson's flesh prickled at that particular voice. "Yes, Mr. Tudor?" He drawled coolly. All right; they were probably going to die, but he would not die with anything less than a smirk of smug satisfaction on his face. When all else fails, give the man who killed you a prematurely shortened life-span with stress-ulcers.

"Kindly stand, Mr. Gregson. I prefer to see you clearly."

"You'll have to wait for a better night than _this_ for _that_." Gregson complied, careful to keep his hands up and out of the way, in plain sight of the gang that was slowly coming to their own stop. Not too close for combat; pity that. Gregson didn't think they'd get that lucky. "Hello, there, Mr. Tudor. How are you on this fine and pleasant night?"

"None of your wit, please, Mr. Gregson." Tudor moved to the side but not forward, still within the protection of his gang. He was tall even among the Christophers, and dressed as if on an expedition in the Alps. Not a foolish way to dress in a place like Dartmoor...

Hard blue eyes gleamed as he stared the big Yarder up and down. "I see you've been busy." He said softly. "Mr. Bradstreet as well...and of course, Constable Murcher." He almost smiled, but that was really more emotion than he could carry. Murcher, following procedure, said nothing, but Gregson knew without looking that the big copper was baring his teeth in hate. "Where are the others, Mr. Gregson?"

"Others?" Gregson repeated innocently, because behind him Murcher was stiff as a rock, gnashing his teeth and hoping to do something swift and violent to someone, anyone in the gang.

"Messrs Lestrade and Hopkins, if you must be trite." Tudor's soft voice was patient—endlessly so. It was how he dealt with all lesser beings. "We never saw them leave with you."

"They were feeling a bit peaky," Bradstreet supplied with his smooth, annoying I-am-an-official voice. "So we left them behind to go for help."

Oliver Christopher stepped to Tudor's side. He was permanently scarred from a lifetime of soot and cinders into his flesh, but he was a sharp thinker under the face of a cold bludger. "You wouldn't leave your men behind." He blew through his nose in contempt. "I'd believe it if you left _Lestrade_ behind, but you'd never leave your protege."

"_Don't insult my profession."_ Gregson's voice barked cold as glacial ice cracking off the Arctic shelf. Even the Christophers looked impressed. "I'd leave the weakest behind for the salvation of the whole, and I've done it. It's what we do."

For almost a minute there was dead silence among the humans while Dartmoor's wildlife hesitantly restarted its clang and chorus.

Tudor never broke eye contact with Gregson. His hands were free; Oliver's hands were full of a wicked-looking club. Gregson hated that other than the lights, he couldn't see anything the gang was carrying and yet he knew there were weapons. He just couldn't see them.

"Oliver?" Tudor asked gently, still staring at Gregson.

Oliver was slow to respond, but deliberate and confident. "Lestrade turned evidence on one of Gregson's mates during the Corruption Trials." His dark eyes glittered over the rest of the group. "He'd leave him behind in a heartbeat, But the Ruddock3 wouldn't stand for it."

Bradstreet shifted slightly in his stance, but otherwise made no sound.

Tudor made a soft sound of thought. "Hopkins?"

"If they left _him_ behind, there was a good reason."

Gregson silently cursed (again) the fact that the Christophers had so much blasted brain-power in their gang. Oliver was a rough nutter, but he could control the worst of the murdering madmen in the group...and he had a memory that rivalled Lestrade's. No one knew who Tudor's newest Second was, but Oliver was fast becoming Gregson's candidate.

_Alfred and Jacobs would be begging for our blood by now...we'd be hearing Jacobs' awful laugh...but they aren't here...so where are they? For that matter...how many people are holding back? We don't even know how many men are in the gang now!_

Just as Gregson was thinking this, Nathan Picot slipped to the front, and his tiny, blinking eyes took in one man after another. Picot was not a remarkable man. He would blend in any crowd in any part of the world, being a little fat and stoop-shouldered and mousy and weak-chinned. But it was the pair of eyes he owned that showed how dangerous he was. They paused for a long time over Gregson, who felt as though he'd been scraped open with many little needling sparks—there was something scary about a man who could look _through_ you like that—and Gregson thought himself vaccinated of that gaze by a lifetime of knowing Sherlock Holmes.

Lestrade went under the sewers." he muttered to his cousin. "That's how he got the up on George and Rick."

Tudor's eyes flashed at the mention of their dead friends. "Oh, so?" He whispered without taking his eyes off Gregson.

Gregson snorted to hide his sudden spate of nerves.

"What have you done with our rifles?"

"_Your_ rifles? Well I don't rightly know. Have you taken a receipt of purchase to the Missing Claims Department?"

A club swung. Radford gasped as his legs were kicked out from under him and the hard point of a stick slammed into his spine. He stopped moving.

"Do not toy with us." Tudor was sounding a bit less patient than before. "You're caught between us and the Mire; if you don't wish to be thrown in it alive and awake, you'd best cooperate."

Gregson grinned, clenching his teeth around the last bit of his precious cigar. He lit it with a flourish and let the smoke soothe his nerves. "Completely understood, Tudor." he did not deign to use the respect of "Mister" at the man, implying he was either lower than himself, or unworthy of the honor. Tudor's eye twitched at the irritation, and Gregson wondered how far he could exploit it until all hell broke loose. "I suppose you understand our position, though? We're in bad straits if we report those rifles to our office. It raises questions."

"I hardly care about the way your office operates."

"You should, Tudor." Gregson's smile grew as wintry as his eyes. "Oh, you should. You see, what's to keep us from reporting these rifles at all?"

1Cattle dead in the field of natural causes; _kine_ is plural of _kye_; cow

2Clumps of green grass that emerge from the lumps of cattle dung in the field.

3An old word for Robin Redbreast; street slang for the Bow Street Runners from the original uniforms of red waistcoats.

4Bathetic is the display of insincere emotions—rooted in the Greek bathos, meaning "depth."


	17. When Enemies Laugh

….. ….. …..

"_Why should he wish to live at the place of danger?"_

"_Because it _**is**_ the place of danger. That is Sir Henry's nature."_

_-HOUN  
_

Tudor was silent for almost a minute, thinking about Gregson's sally. The disciplined Christophers waited just as quietly in the mists. Radford was still down; smart lad, with a heavy club inches from his body. The helmet only protected his head. It wouldn't keep him from a crushed shoulder or spinal column, even with that thick wool coat on his back.

"I'm not concerned if you report the rifles or not, Mr. Gregson."

Gregson hadn't expected that. "Odd thing for you to say," he prodded, hoping for clues. Anything said in anger would be useful...

"Hardly." Tudor lifted his chin. As usual, the very dullness of his gaze frightened Gregson, even though Gregson would cheerfully die, whistling, before he admitted it. But Tudor was dull. There was little genuine emotion from the man outside his work, and his work was all blood and horror.

"Where are your men? Where is Mr. Lestrade and Mr. Hopkins?" Tudor barely lifted his voice, but it sounded like a gunshot across the earth. The night-birds hushed at the _intensity_ coming from the leader.

"Where is who?" Gregson taunted.

Tudor didn't blink at him, but kept his frozen eye upon Gregson as he spoke to Picot: "Nathan, take Oliver and two of your men and go to your brothers. The police are in the Narrows..." He smiled, a ghastly stretch of thin lip from ear to ear. "You know what to do."

"Yes, sir..."

Before Gregson's eyes, Oliver and Nathan slowly realised something, and they smiled just like Tudor. It was a ghoulish expression of delight, and Gregson felt as though a knife of sickness had pierced his heart. Know what to do? With Stanley and Geoffrey? What was the Narrows? Brothers? That would be Jacobs and Alfred...

He waited, silent heart in silent throat, as four men split off from the blurry group of killers. No one spoke. Gregson could smell someone's Spanish tobacco over the scent of his own cigar, and he puffed furiously, as if in a sudden case of nerves. Let them think so; it would just be a pity to let a cigar die unspent before he cast it to the earth. Four men leaving...that many? Gregson still couldn't see how many Christophers were lurking in the fog, but Tudor wouldn't dare have an even fight. No, four left and he was still planning a rout. They were still outnumbered but perhaps not outmatched.

Bradstreet shuffled his feet forward. "_Tobe_," he muttered.

"_I know, Roger."_ Gregson muttered back. _"Stick to the plan."_

Bradstreet gusted a long, weary sigh out of his large lungs.

"Mr. Gregson," Tudor said at last, "If any last words come to mind, now would be a good time to say them."

"Hah." Gregson chuckled icily. "Here's some for you. Be careful digging up those stolen rifles, lad. We'd hate for you to get your feet wet."

Tudor paused, and took a step to the side without easing off his glare on Gregson. "Kill them." He said simply.

The Christophers obliged. The swarmed like a clump of large rats down the slope to the policemen trapped between themselves and the Great Grimpen Mire.

–

"_Twily bastard!"_ Lestrade snarled and hurriedly sucked the blood off his aching thumb. The last stone had proven more patient than the last hinge, but the metal had twisted up as his hand had come down. The door crumpled under its own weight plus Lestrade's.

Calmer, he searched in his pockets for candle and light, and combined the two in a hiss of friction and popple-wood. The sharp tang of chemicals struck his nose and he narrowed his eyes as the match-tip caught the tiny woven wick. The light sputtered, gasping for breath in the damp, and finally flared in triumph. Lestrade _almost_ relaxed to see the tiny flame win against the wet fogs, but he felt exposed and anxious, and he half-stepped inside the slate hut, arm extended with the candle in hand.

Many tools caught his eyes—the rope he so badly needed was coiling snakelike into the roof—But the barrel of drinking water and the flitch of cured bacon didn't belong with tools of _any_ kind. Food and iron wasn't normally kept together.

_Another cache,_ he thought darkly. _Something else they can use in hard times._

Never mind that nonsense. He grabbed the rope with his free hand and tugged it free, hoisting it over his shoulder like a gigantic sleeve. Hopkins needed rope if he was to climb out of that pit. And he'd best hurry if he didn't want to watch their luck run out. He struggled to the lip of the quarry with his heavy burden, and pressed flat on his ribs as he tied the nearest end to the iron bar set into the top of the earth. If he were a more foolish man, he would just trust Hopkins to pull himself up with the rope, but he knew the other man too well. Hopkins was in no shape to pull himself up a rope with just the strength of his arms. He'd lived too many years out of the fens, where strength in the arms was taken for granted. London didn't demand that sort of muscle out of a man unless they specialized in swinging coal...or climbing into second-storey windows for theft jobs.

He saw to the knot, tugged twice, and dropped himself down as quickly as his common sense would allow (which, he'd allow, wasn't very much). He stopped at the eye-bolts on the way down and hung on to the narrow stone steps long enough to thread the rope through—and for good measure, knot it. That way even if someone from above cut the rope, they'd still have a chance...

He was spending too much time with Gregson if he was getting this nervous about the what-ifs...

Hopkins yelped and got out of the way in time; Lestrade dropped with his left foot first, absorbing the first shock of landing. He twisted slightly on the scoil and held on to the rope, breathing hard. He was getting too old for this. Really. What would the Chief think?

"Are you all right?" Hopkins rasped.

"Right as rain," Lestrade panted, and not even bothering to hide the fact that he was lying through his teeth. "We're going to go up together, hey? You hold on to me this way...and between the two of us we should be able to walk up these steps...what are you doing?" Hopkins was stuffing something into his coat pocket.

"Found your glove." The younger man grinned.

"You went loo—oh, for..."

Lestrade lapsed into a series of mumbling that told Hopkins (rural lad that he was) that his older companion still had ties to the Cymraeg. At least, he was certain the pithy '_drewgi siffilitig_' had no business in polite Breton _or_ English company.1

Gentleman that he was, Lestrade would accuse his fellow man of every atrocity upon the planet as long as it didn't insult a woman or child. This left him the recourse of a large, rich and creative repertoire of observation and insult.

He went through his laundry-list of vocabulary under his breath whilst getting Hopkins to the top of the quarry. Hopkins vowed to himself that if they did live through this night, he would ask Lestrade to give him a full explanation of the Celtic sermon filling his ears. The King James Version would suffice.

–

**Great Grimpen Mire:**

The problem with spying on a party in a foggy night means that details will inevitably be lost. Such as the difference between boots and shoes; or...brass buttons and yellow-painted buttons...division letters upon the helmet...

...or...more important details...Such as the presence of a long length of rope.

The rope Bradstreet borrowed from Bourne and used to tie the men together had served its purpose once it had brought them all in a piece to the edge of the Mire. After that, Bradstreet had taken the rope and allowed it to serve another useful purpose.

The first three Christophers tripped over the ankle-high trip-wire stretched between the last of the Mark-stones and fell flat. Their comrades moved too quickly to stop, but they could not keep the police from jumping upon their men and knocking them out with hard blows of the truncheons; knives transferred ownership in a blink and the battle was suddenly on even ground—figuratively as well as literally. Radford came to life with a vigor that would have impressed a decapitated Saint, and put a handy rock against a few handy skulls coming his way.

Gregson had his heart on the prize that was Tudor. He limped forward with more haste than was wise, and wielded his cane like a man in a good round of waster.2

Tudor might spend other lives more freely than he would his own, but he wasn't a coward. He hissed through his teeth and accepted Gregson's primordial challenge. The two clashed as fierce as rival dogs, all teeth and flash and power. Something hard slammed hard into the old copper's upper arm, and bit into his flesh and bone with the fury of a bee's sting. Gregson was inflamed. He lashed out, rendered painless from the heat of battle, and struck with his left arm. He felt the scrape of teeth breaking against the weave of his lambswool-clad knuckles. Tudor's hateful face fell backward and down into the murk; someone smashed a lantern into the broken earth and there was a scream.

"_Hands up!"_ Someone practically screamed, and Gregson almost dropped his stick in reflex. _"You! Hands up! Hands up or so help me, I'll shoot!"_

As if anyone would harbour a doubt, a rifle promptly went off into the air. That more than anything impressed the crowd into a stilling.

They stilled, but the police kept their grips on their handfuls of Christophers.

"_You have the right to carry a gun, copper?" _ A Christopher shouted. Tudor couldn't speak; he was spitting blood and teeth out of his mouth, but he looked as though he wanted to say something quite badly. Gregson tightened his grip around the man's scrawny throat, and used his other hand to frisk out the pockets for anything dangerous.

"_Officer Greep of Princetown, __**he**__ has the right to carry a gun...and a rifle...and a truncheon...and a knife if need be!" _The voice shot back. _"As do the men with him." The voice turned rock-hard. __**"And I am Sir Henry Baskerville, and you are trespassing on my land, by thunder!"**_

"Greep?" Bradstreet gasped. "Luke Greep! I know that name!" He lifted his voice. "Greep, it's Bradstreet! Bow Street!"

"Bradstreet!" Greep was a relieved voice in the darkness. "How many of you are there? Are you injured?"

"We left two of our men behind. Some small injuries here...we'll need a Crow before long. So will the Christophers." The last was finished with a giddy laugh.

Someone moved; a man in dark blue clothing lashed out, trying to push his way past Murcher. Murcher snarled and held on to the man with all his strength. The tussle was brief; a second shot rang out, and the Christopher shrieked, falling to the earth with a hand locked over his bleeding arm. Murcher's leathery old face creased in dawning horror: the shot had been perfectly made right across his own shoulder.

Faced with a blatant display of marksmanship, the Christophers managed to freeze even further.

"I can see you better than you can see me, gents." The baronet's voice was still calm and collected. Over the ringing in their ears, the men could hear snorts and hooves stamping the earth. How many were out there? Ten? Twenty? There were many, that was obvious. "Try again if you doubt me. There's no law against being a fool."

"Not sure about that." Gregson muttered. He raised his voice: "Sir Henry, this is Inspector Gregson. We should get these men into custody as soon as possible. They're all hardened killers."

"I've got the perfect rifle for them, then. Gentlemen, we'll hold them in our sights while you put your handcuffs to good use. Say the word when it's safe for us to meet close range."

"Agreed, Sir Henry."

The police fashioned a makeshift human chain of Christophers connected with links made of Derbies. There were a lot of Christophers, but they had just enough metal for the work. Tudor was still gagging and spitting up blood but much of the fight had been knocked out of his spirit. The same could be said for the others. They were a sorry bunch when the last cuff clicked into place, and all were forced to sit down as the Constables quickly checked them over for weapons.

"I think that's it." Gregson took a deep breath. "Do you have any spare horses, Sir Henry?"

"Might at that." Was the droll reply. Under the combined mutter and cursing of the gang, hoof-prints stepped across the edge of the Mire. The mists swirled up, then danced away as a rider emerged from a white curtain. He was a small man, small as Lestrade, with dark eyes that snapped like hematite under a broad hat that dripped fog-water. He rode without reins, guiding the pony with his knees like a Tinker, freeing his hands to hold the wicked-looking rifle in his sturdy hands.

"I've got quite a few ponies, sir." The baronet paused to tap his brim in a show of respect to the police. "Glad to see you're all in one piece...so it seems." He shook his head. "Well done. I'm impressed at you all...less at them." His dark eyes went as hard as his jaw as he took in the gang. "You're murdering tyrants and I'll see to it the killers of my men are hung to the last inch of the law."

"We've got to get Lestrade and Hopkins." Bradstreet panted. He was holding one hand to his hip in pain. "We had to leave them behind, and four of the gang went back for them!"

"That's bad." The baronet scowled. "How many of your men can you spare for watching these thugs?"

"...spare?" Gregson repeated just as his eyes went wide with an instinct.

"Yes." Sir Henry grinned a little sheepishly, but proudly too. "I didn't want to wait for backup, so it was just me and my ponies. Well...that and my attempt at Greep's voice. I take it I wasn't too bad?"

"No." Bradstreet said faintly. "You weren't bad at all, sir. My compliments."

"Where are your men?" Sir Henry handed over his rifle to a delighted Greenwood, and hopped off his stallion as easy as a soap-bubble. "I might know a short-cut."

Gregson described their old shelter as best as he could, with the baronet listening with both ears.

"That sounds like one of the old huts the shepherds keep for emergency supplies, but I can't imagine why it would be stocking things like felt or pony-skins or old naptha boxes..." The young man's face boded ill for someone. "And I really don't like that part about the skins. It seemed that the wild herds were smaller lately...if someone's been hunting them, I want to know who." He rubbed his jaw in thought. "I think I know the place you were in. What say we leave another rifle with some of your boys and head that way?"

"And how quickly can we get there?" Gregson urged. "We left our men in a cave passage. They might be caught in a trap!"

"Oh, that's easier said than done." The baronet assured him as he passed over another gleaming hunting-gun to Murcher. Murcher was more than happy to take it, and the gang was even more subdued when one of their favourite targets of abuse looked at them with a deadly weapon in his gloved hands.

"Beg your pardon? I don't understand, Sir Henry."

"The place is riddled up with cave passages on that side. Most of the main channels connect to the old beer-stone quarry on the sea-facing side; I'm more worried about how we can find them if they get lost-"

"Oh, no." Bradstreet groaned, cutting off the baronet. They blinked at him. The big Runner was pale with shock; cold sweat beaded upon his brow and he swallowed hard. "Tobias...The Narrows. That Narrows was some sort of passage, wasn't it? It has to be. They're in a channel called the Narrows."

"What's wrong, Roger?" Gregson limped to the side to fully look at the man.

"A _cave passage_. _They need someone small_."

Gregson kept his composure closed and still as he continued to face-forward at the Gang. Inwardly his shrewd mind was racing like the Flying Scotsman.

Lestrade and Hopkins were the smallest men in their group—and by far smaller than the smallest Christopher. That tiny water-cut into the stone they'd crawled into...the Christophers couldn't fit in there. Even Tudor was too big.

But Horace William and Ian Wheelock hadn't been big. They had been the only small members of the gang...and they were currently behind bars.

So...why did Tudor look so interested when told Lestrade went into the sewers?

_What_ was in that passage?

Something that wasn't overtly dangerous, or the Christophers wouldn't be going back to retrieve them...Gregson hoped.

Tudor was sitting upright in the middle of the chain of captives. His face had finally stopped bleeding but he was still a fright.

"You." Gregson didn't know his own voice as it growled out of his throat. "What do you need my men for, Tudor?"

Tudor blinked at him haughtily. "A little hard to talk right now, Gregson." He said this delicately around the broken teeth and swelling lips.

"I'm sure it is." Gregson's voice dropped twenty degrees. "We can only hang you once, but a hanging is fairly quick. You're sitting less than a stone's throw from one of the slower deaths writ by Mother Nature, and I would think you'd be inspired by that."

–

At the quarry, Hopkins and Lestrade were collapsed on the lip of the top step, gasping for breath after breath after breath. Lestrade was utterly done in. He didn't feel like he could handle anything without some rest. Hopkins was physically better off, but a misjudged move of his bad ankle had sent a searing pain up his tendons all the way to the back of his neck. He was still pale from the blow of his own neurons. He needed rest too. And bandages to hold his ankle in place.

"We look like one of Mac's fritteners." Hopkins shook his head.

"I'm sure we do." Lestrade tilted his head back and took a deep, deep breath of the sweet, damp air. Cool mist cooled their hot faces.

A gunshot went off. The compression floated through the fog, seemingly far away, but Hopkins was catching on that a distant sound could mean something right next to you.

"_Damn!"_ Lestrade blistered. _"We've got to hide! Now!"_

"_Where?" Hopkins whispered. "We're out in the open..." _The only thing he could see was the tool-shed, and that would be the first place anyone would look.

Both men peered about the clogged atmosphere frantically, knowing time was short. Sure enough, heavy foot-steps and slides of gravel and stones marked the approach of too many men.

1Not translating this. Sorry.

2The precursor of the more gentlemanly sport of singlestick. Sherlock Holmes was skilled in various martial arts, such as Baritsu, boxing and singlestick (even though boxing took time to be popularised to the level of respectability). Holmes was a singlestick player; the rougher element that played waster used wooden swords that were unsharpened or blunt, sacrificing authenticity for the moment's practicality.


	18. The Kistvaens Are Not Empty

–

Gregson took Murcher's rifle and sat down on a boulder that had once been a proud mark-stone. Time and earth had sunk the stone downward until only the top half remained. With all due respect to the unknown forefathers who'd thought it important to put a shaped rock _right there,_ it fit his needs perfectly. He rested with the rifle neatly held in a 35-degree angle, patient to watch as his injured thigh throbbed. His arm throbbed in tandem, angry at its treatment at Tudor's knife.

Gregson busied himself with studying the blade, and found nothing more overt than his own blood upon the metal, but...

Greenwood wasn't the only man who gaped when Gregson coolly and calmly put the blade into his own mouth. Even the Christophers were impressed.

"Sir?" Bourne croaked.

"I'd rather know now than later if there's poison on it." Gregson told him calmly. "And if there is, I can't taste it." He gave Tudor a significant glare. "I'm surprised at you, Tudor. I thought you were a better killer than that."

Tudor struggled to save face—what there was of it. "I'll try to remember that next time."

"Not bad, as far as defiance goes...but it's my job to make sure you don't get a next time." Gregson answered. He subsided reluctantly, allowing his men the space to work without his interference.

It had been hard to watch Bradstreet go off with Sir Henry. Gregson had always gone first into the teeth of danger. But it needed to be done.

He kept his eyes on Tudor. The leader of the gang had fallen silent and nothing could get him to talk. He was pretending great interest in daubing blood off his face (it would be an all night job, clearly; Murcher and Gregson had both knuckle-stamped the man's profile). Gregson was tempted to try some of the harder forms of persuasion, but knew it wasn't a good idea. He wasn't well enough for a fight, and Tudor might, if pressed, prove himself desperate. Desperate men did crazy, foolish things and the risk of distraction turning deadly was too great. Gregson took great pride in being English, but he had enough cool Saxon calculation in his family tree that cautioned against fecklessness. That was more Lestrade's way, and Gregson had absolutely no desire to be mistaken for a Celt.

But he wanted to know very badly what they would need Lestrade and Hopkins _for_. Travelling in small places...well...Lestrade was _good_ at that, but Hopkins...

Hopkins was the great unknown. Tonight was his first trip under the earth (as far as anyone could tell). What if he turned out to be one of the men who panicked at the thought of all the rock over their heads? Gregson had heard of men being all right until that particular thought struck them down like lightning, left them shaking and wrecked and in need of rescue. What if they had nightmares of being trapped underground or buried alive? Gregson had hopes that Hopkins was in more control of himself than that.

_But he didn't know._

Around him his men were doing a damned good night's work in searching the gang of weapons and tricks. They were being careful; they knew as well as any London copper how dangerous the Christophers were. Pick anyone in the crowd, and that anyone had murders and atrocities under their names. Whatever they'd want out of his men, they'd get it and then kill them if they were feeling generous. If they weren't feeling so, they'd just murder slowly and painfully.

And Gregson didn't know what would happen next.

Sir Henry stopped his pony and Bradstreet's followed suit. The Runner was smitten at the behavior of the Exmoors; they were small but sturdy and acted as though his two hundredweight was a negligible concern. Bradstreet wasn't used to being on a horse that ignored his weight unless he was on one of the Outer Isles. He didn't even have to use the reins; the herd all followed the baronet's stallion without a single equine complaint. Bradstreet didn't know if it was the man's training, or a natural quality of the half-wild beasts, but he'd like to find out someday.

"If we get any closer to the top, they'll hear us." Sir Henry murmured. "d'ruther they think they're hearing a herd of wild moor-ponies."

Bradstreet nodded and the men slipped off their mounts together, the last of the rifles in one hand. Bradstreet was impressed at the quality of his firearm. It was a gentleman's rifle, and fairly smacked of recent service in the military. Sir Henry was a natural leader with a grasp of tactics. It was little wonder Lestrade openly liked the fellow.

The small man moved forward with his knees bent, shoulders hunched forward to ruin his outline in the foggy night, keeping his rifle tilted up the whole time. He knew the path well. Bradstreet kept up easily, for the baronet moved with consideration to his companion's lack of experience. Moors and tors are not so different from one part of the isle to the other, and Bradstreet did not have much trouble with keeping up.

Sir Henry's free hand extended, pressing his gloved palm against Bradstreet's frogged buttons. The two dropped to their knees on the wet terrain. The fogs blew scattered patches of white stuff here and there across the lay of the land; at first it was clear, then it was clotted. Bradstreet silently gnashed his teeth, imagining how hard it would be to grab the four Christophers in such a place.

He craned his neck, peering over the Baskerville's shoulder...and almost straight down. They were crouched over a spur of rock that connected to a looping path that must have been made by the quarry-men: the path was set with crushed gravel and gleamed palely in the tiny lantern-light. But there were other lights too: Two of them, large lanterns of the sort used by the road-builders when they had night work cut out for them. Broad sweeps of sickly yellow light bled across a rough and tumble field that rested against a bottomless black drop that had to be the quarry itself. The lights bobbed; eight shadow-legs and eight shadow-arms moved, foggy spiders focused on a chilling journey.

Being the only policeman present, Bradstreet didn't have to think twice. _"You, there! Stop with your hands up!"_

The four stopped, all right. Stopped as sudden as a dead summer wind.

"_And who says you?"_ Shouted back a voice rougher than oaken bark, wielding a deadly looking club studded with nails.

Bradstreet mentally groaned, for he was heartily sick of seeing Holywater Sprinklers. _"Inspector Bradstreet of Scotland Yard! I have men and I have guns! Do not make me use either!"_

But to the Runner's astonished anger, and Sir Henry's muttered oaths, the sally met with no respect.

The Christophers _laughed_.

Greep had made a single mis-step on the way to the Mark-Stone path, and was now one throbbing ache and pain. Selleck tried to help him where he could, but it had been a bad fall and it was sheer luck that kept him from broken bones.

It would have been nice to have one of the Baskerville Exmoors, or Ross' champion bloods, but both men were uneasy about their horsemanship in such a foggy world. Unaware of Sir Henry's jaunt on the other side of the Mire, they had moved much slowly and carefully, but they had finally gotten to the edge of the neolithic stone clusters. Both men had done a great deal of walking over Dartmoor concerning escaped convicts or petty criminals.

Selleck had heard something first. He threw himself flat upon the soggy terrain, and Greep was smart enough to follow suit. Patient in the way a prison guard learns, he waited, listening for his next clue.

Greep was grinding his teeth in the night. He finally stopped at the same time he lifted his gaze from his fore-arms.

"_You, there! Stop with your hands up!"_

Finally. A clue. The two men strained forward through a clump of broken rock and heather, shivering in the chilly night. That sounded close by...

"_And who says you?"_

And that was even closer. Alarmingly closer. The men froze, wondering if they'd been a little too close to trouble.

Greep poked his friend in the shoulder and jerked with his chin. Selleck squinted in the swirling light and dark of the fog, and just then a boot-heel ground into pebbled soil.

The further voice glowered into the night: _"Inspector Bradstreet of Scotland Yard! I have men and I have guns! Do not make me use either!"_

The laughter was not a good sign.

Selleck had pin-pointed the obvious Christophers by then. They were about twenty yards away, and slightly down the slope in the middle of a kistvaen field. The ancient grave-marking stones huddled, suspended in the air by the weight of the white fog clinging to the ground. It was knee-deep to the killers, and shifted in unsettling little ways like water moved if water had conscious purpose. They were all in profile, facing to the left and upwards, where the Yard was presumably perched on the higher ground.

"And what will you do if you use those guns, copper?" A bulky squat man in black clothing wanted to know. "Worried about your friends, are you? How are you going to find them without us?"

"That's Oliver Picot." Selleck whispered harshly into Greep's ear. "The tall one's his brother Nathan. They're deadly." He felt Greep nod his understanding.

"They're in the Narrows. How hard can it be? Why don't you tell me?" Shot back the man claiming to be Bradstreet—the guard and the policeman couldn't see up the little bluff at all.

"Oh, if they're in the Narrows, they ain't going just anywhere, Blue." Nathan shot back. "They'd have to get past our men to begin with, and besides that it's not an easy thing to do, getting lost down there!" He laughed again; the other three were grinning, swinging lanterns from side to side as they shifted their weight back and forth. "Best go back to your fellows, Mr. Bradstreet! They might be needing your help!"

"Don't worry," Oliver chimed in. "We promise we'll give 'em back to you when we're done!" This was hailed as the height of wit.

A string of bullets peppered the earth before the gang, causing them to jump back in all due haste. Selleck and Greep flinched down, hoping no one would accidentally aim in their direction.

"Sorry, gents." A new voice, hard and cold, shot back. The hiding men knew that voice very well, and caught themselves smiling. "But you can't play with them tonight. They've got to go home and file their reports. You can ask them tomorrow."

"Sir Henry, my word." Greep whispered admiringly. "Man's got a backbone."

"That Canadian's nothing _but_ backbone." Selleck agreed.

Silence as the fog drifted chilly fingers across the way. The grins on the gang's faces had faded, but they hadn't ended; they were turning ugly.

"You're awfully bold, gents." Nathan's voice had gone cold and soft. "We know where your men are; you don't. You can't get to them. We can. And our men are waiting within earshot of those nice bullets. If we don't give them the password, you'll have two dead coppers on your hands. Not that we're too worried about it, but it's up to you."

Damn.

Selleck and Greep stared at each other, at a loss for something to do or say. It could be a bluff...but with men like that...

It was a good thing one got used to seeing the unexpected in Dartmoor. The mist simply broke open behind the Christophers and two corpse-pale men rose out of the stone graves. Selleck nevertheless jumped a mile, but just as quickly, the wraiths jumped into the back of the gang from their higher point. One glance at the men in their uniformly plain clothing and short truncheons, and Greep barked his laughter.

"And they say there's never a policeman when you need one!" He was still laughing as he lunged for his rifle.

"Oh, _very_ funny." Selleck snipped, cut to the quick at his friend's cleverness.

A burst of bullets into the air froze the tableau. True to form, the Christophers stopped moving and tried to examine the situation. Also true to form, the policemen got to a stopping point before they froze; they finished cracking the heads they were dealing with before pulling back.

"Hullo, gentlemen!" Selleck cheered. "Sergeant Selleck of Coombe Tracey. At your service, Sir Henry...Mr. Bradstreet."

"Likewise I'm sure, gentlemen." Bradstreet's deep voice boomed over the fog. "Lestrade, good to see you two, old fellow. But they said there were others?"

"We dealt with them." Lestrade snorted. Up close he was shown to be well clad in a layer of white cavern clay. Hopkins sneezed into a dusty handkerchief, equally coated. "They won't be happy when they wake up...we'll need a doctor to see to them."

"Too bad we can't put them down like wounded horses..."

By the time Sir Henry and Bradstreet managed a safe passage down to the bottom of the kistvaen field, the last four Christophers were wrapped up and neutralised.

"Very nice Lee-Enfield you have there, Greep." The baronet greeted cheerfully.

"Handy to have." Selleck said helpfully. "They fire 30 rounds in a minute."

Bradstreet was looking at his comrades up and down. "When the womenfolk see what you did to those jackets, they'll finish what the Christophers started." He promised.

Lestrade and Hopkins both flinched. "Until then, let's not talk about it," the younger Yarder suggested quickly. "How are everyone else?"

"You missed the fun—the rest of the gang showed up right after we threw the rifles into the Mire-" Bradstreet grinned at the suddenly horrified faces on the reviving killers. "And there was quite the tussel. We all got new additions to our collection," he added in reference to scars.

"Anyone badly hurt?" Lestrade wondered.

"Gregson took a gash on the arm. He would have said if it were bad."

"How long have you known him?" Lestrade groaned. "For God's sakes!"

"James can see to him." Sir Henry reminded them all. He was leaning forward on his thighs, letting the pony crop at a tuft of heather. "Can any of you gents ride bareback? If so, I have plenty of rides." He grinned suddenly, a flash of startlingly white teeth in the lantern-light. "Besides Lestrade here. I know _you_ can."

"Thanks, but I prefer my hooves to be shod in shoe-leather." Selleck said politely. "Greep? I know you're hurting from that fall..."

"I'll take that ride." Greep breathed. "Gentlemen, I suggest that we take these four on to the prison? Seeing as how I should turn in this rifle at earliest opportunity and also because the facilities are well equipped for these non-gentlemen..."

"The rest of us can meet up with Gregson and the rest at the Mire." Bradstreet offered. "No matter how smooth things are looking right now...I don't like the idea of our group being separated."

–

The four Christophers left with Selleck and Greep, who were perfectly delighted for the task. The Yarders were privately relieved; they might have overt jurisdiction over the criminals because of the case they had been assigned, but nothing guaranteed hard feelings in the provinces faster than a London copper 'coming in and taking the credit' even if the credit meant too many wounds.

Hopkins decided tonight was as good a night to learn how to ride bareback as any other, but was grateful for the light tack (basically a rope bridle).

"They're born wild and have the most tender of mouths you can imagine," Sir Henry explained. "They'll take a man's weight but you don't have to do anything more than stay on; they're following my Jack here."

"Just glad to be off my feet a bit." Lestrade muttered. He was too tired to keep his usual manners up with the baronet.

"What do you say, shall we stick around and wait for help from the prison?"

"Depends on Bradstreet." Lestrade jerked his thumb to his friend. "Gregson put him in charge of this group."

Bradstreet was startled but shouldn't have been. Lestrade was too careful not to concede authority on a case. "I'm fine with that, but Hopkins and I should stay with the group. Lestrade, if you could take Gregson up to Baskerville Hall?"

"Shouldn't be too difficult," Lestrade said with completely unconscious irony that something might not be difficult in Dartmoor. "I know where we are well enough."

"The Mire's gone down a bit since you were here last." Sir Henry told him. "Not much rain when we needed it. I'm not complaining, mind you. I had some drinking-ponds dug up and the wild animals are going there instead of risking death in the muck."

"I fully plan to take the way around." Lestrade swore. "I've no love for drowning in the earth."

Hopkins took a deep breath, but it turned to a yawn. He was unbelievably tired but knew his mind wouldn't let him sleep. Not until they were all safe.

Gregson's arm hurt worse than ever. He dearly wished he could clean it with hot water instead of the splash of flask-brandy. Not being too sharp to start with, the tip had punched through the layers of wool and cotton to get to his skin; the padded impact had left what felt like a tremendous bruising around the puncture.

"How are you, sir?" Radford couldn't stand his silence one more second. He knew Gregson would rip the skin off his back for showing the weakness before the Christophers, but his sense of duty was stronger than his sense of self-preservation.

Gregson had "borrowed" someone's cigarette. It had a rich flavour of vanilla and rum and a very darkly cured leaf. He exhaled smoke very slowly before he answered.

"Not too shabby, Constable." He answered evenly. For just a moment the lantern-light caught the glint of eyes as blue as glacial ice; then his head shifted, and the gleam was gone like it never happened.

"Brings back memories, being stabbed," he said all of a sudden, with a strangely cheerful look to his face. Bourne wondered if he was feverish; his face seemed pinker, or perhaps it was the brandy?

"Stabbed, sir?" Harding repeated uneasily.

Gregson chuckled out loud, which distracted even the Christophers from their restless shuffling about.

"Well I was about due...it's been a good ten years since I was last pinked." His grin was a little nasty as he cradled the flask to his chest. "Now that was a case! Much more interesting than this one. Bit more frightening too."

Greenwood caught on first. Gregson wasn't making himself look like a fool, or a daft victim. He was getting the Christopher's attention. The killers were slowing in their shuffling, which spared the coppers the constant poking and prodding with sticks and stolen cudgels.

"And when I mean frightening, I meant a whole village frightened." The big man continued to drop clues without actually revealing anything.

"What happened, sir?" Radford asked quietly. "If you don't mind my asking you, that is."

"Might as well. It's a much better story than what we've been through tonight." Gregson leaned back, his aching leg stiff. "Ten years ago, almost." he said as if to himself. "Just almost eleven. It started with a school of missing herring, and ended up with a twice-stolen corpse.

"Not," he added as the silence in the entire group, criminals and policeman all, thickened. "it wasn't the first time we'd had to deal with a corpse stolen more than once! You ask Lestrade about the time one of his own cases came back to haunt him from beyond the grave...three times!"

"Sir, I certainly will." Radford's sense of duty gave him the sensible solution of moving behind the line of handcuffed Christophers, so that he was facing Gregson dead on and the Christophers' shoulderblades in a line between them. Slowly the other police did the same, weapons at ready and cautious.

"All right, I'll tell you, but no grading on this one. The contest was for you Constables, and I'll keep to it. But other than that, it's perfect for the guidelines." Gregson stretched slowly, letting the suspense grow a bit. "Makes me glad we live in the enlightened times that we do, it does." he sniffed loudly against brandy fumes.

"Did you know," he opened the story almost casually, "That the ancient Druids sacrificed criminals?"


	19. The Cat of the Mortimers

"What was that?"

Hopkins all but gasped the syllables out of his dry throat, but Lestrade was too tired to react. He blinked with an owl-like slowness and craned his head backward where the unearthly little cry had stirred the mists.

"Sounded like a bird." Bradstreet offered uncertainly. "A Grey-peter?"

"That's what I thought, but at night?"

"I've heard it a few times." The Baronet told them, but under the easy tongue his eyes were darkly troubled. "I haven't heard that sound at night...in a long time."

"But you remember it, sir?" Lestrade asked deferentially.

"Oh, by thunder!" The baronet shuddered like a drenched cat. "It was in the heart of winter and the weather was all over the night sky-'it blew and it snew', as they say in Canada."1 He cleared his throat, and balanced his rifle easily in his large hands. It said much about his horsemanship that he could use both hands for his weapons and guide his horse with his knees. "Well!" He lifted his voice cheerfully. "Nothing to it, I'm sure. Just reminds us that we upset our feathered neighbors, right?"

"Yes, of course, sir." Lestrade assured him. He didn't look happy.

Hopkins didn't _feel_ happy. Something was off with Lestrade and Bradstreet, and it must be bad because they weren't talking.

The young Crane knew and trusted his older companion—men who were almost the mentors for him as Gregson, and that was saying much.

"Gentlemen," Hopkins tapped his brim. "If I may, I'd prefer to ride up closer to Sir Henry; if the two of you take the back we have a lower chance of being followed unawares?"

Bradstreet nodded, his face a thundercloud beneath his grey-striped beard. Lestrade almost smiled, but the weariness made Hopkins hold his breath.

The Baronet was holding an unlit cigar in his lips as Hopkins rode to his side. "Well done," he said to the Yarder as they set a slower pace. The horses weren't getting them to Baskerville Hall any faster, but they were being much quieter. "You're a good man, spotting for your friends like that."

Hopkins had to figure out what Sir Henry was saying. The man's Canadian English was blunt in one way...and terrifically subtle in another.

"And you can't think of a reason why that bird would upset them?" He hazarded.

"Not on your tintype, I couldn't." Sir Henry shrugged it off. "I spent most of my life away from home, you know; I'm afraid the truth it I'll be re-learning the ways of my own land until the day I die...which, I should add, I don't want to be but far in the future."

"That's sensible." Hopkins agreed cautiously. Their mounts fell into concordance together; behind them the other two were undeniably talking, but it was their guess as to what they were saying.

"One thing you had to learn fast in the northern wilds," his host said almost idly, "it saves time if you let men who understand each other talk amongst themselves." he grinned suddenly. "And if they're old friends, so much the better. They can have whole, long chats with each other and never say a word."

"Something about that bird bothered them. If I'd been paying attention, I would have heard more than a moment of that cry...It took me too long to figure that out, sir." Hopkins said honestly.

Sir Henry cocked his head to one side, exactly how a pit bull would do if it was puzzling out an interesting situation. _Pit bull. Oh, dear._ Hopkins' sadly energetic imagination was assaulted with parallel qualities the Baskerville had with that established breed. Snapping eyes and a barrel chest weren't the half of it.

"You haven't found a _true_ friend yet, have you?" The Baronet's friendly question didn't need answering. "There's no shame to it. Circumstances find your friends, not something you're actually controlling. It's probably what makes such friendships so golden."

"Golden, sir?" Hopkins was instinctively following one of Gregson's oldest rules: _Act like you know everything when you're around your peers and below...but act nothing but ignorant when you're the one below. Either way, it saved him a terrible amount of time and effort in human communications._

"Permanent." Sir Henry explained.

"Ah." Hopkins cleared his throat, for despite the sluicing of the tea-canteens, he still felt dry and parched. "It's something worth waiting for, sir."

"That it is." Sir Henry smiled with a fondness that had turned inward, and Hopkins wondered who _his_ 'golden' friend would be.

* * *

The Christophers were a brutal folk but they were used to causing hurt more than being hurt. In the night-chill every injury suffered swelled and magnified and gained extra pounds in dragging weight. The shuffling about of aching bodies and sniffing had stilled as limbs stiffened up. Gregson had been counting on it. Keeping them quiet would let their wounds settle; they'd be harder to move quickly, and that lowered the chances of another surprise attack. Gregson planned to keep them quiet, and he already knew how to use the night to his advantage. He pulled one last sally from his tobacco, and began.

"Greenwood, what does your old war-wound tell you?" He hammered the words across the fog even as it childishly attempted to skew his sight of the old soldier.

Greenwood never blinked. He was a professional. "We're in for a bitter night, sir." He told the plainclothes. "Wind is already changing for the worse, though it'll hit us bit by bit, slow as an ant's crawl until we're struck with cold and damp and the ague to go with it all."

Gregson sniffed loudly and spat to the side in a vulgarism that startled the Christophers as much as the newer coppers. While it was true that the police were often birthed from the very ranks that caused the most aggressive of criminals, there was no use in displaying their baser attitudes.

"Right, then. No sense in letting 'em choke up and die on us." He sniffed again, louder than ever, and nodded at his men. "Everyone with spirits in their can...put 'em up. It'll be a cold time and I don't feel like cozying up to these visions of loveliness to keep 'em warm. Harding? What about that little gambler's can you've got snugged up in your sleeve?"

It was, Gregson mused to himself, one of the under-appreciated forms of Art that his profession carried. Being thought of as a fool was never pleasant, but playing the fool was how things were done in the Force. It would seem foolish indeed to let a gang of thugs drink the spirits dry...but Gregson was gambling on several things this night and one of which was the short-sighted greed of the Christophers. How many of their ilk would refuse to take the chance to drink a policeman dry of alcohol? They were already in the handcuffs, but they were still dangerous. Now that the advantage was Gregson's he planned to keep it.

So he grumbled and puffed and had the men pull out can after can and let the Christophers drink each can dry, telling the Bluebottles it was cheaper than keeping them warm with their coats, and it was their duty to see they lived for the reinforcements, wasn't it? He puffed his tobacco and blinked frequently, which was a common way of pretending a near-sightedness. Storytime was about to begin, and if Gregson knew his audience as well as he knew his story...this would do a neat trick.

He knew he couldn't see a single useful thing, but he couldn't help but turn his head one last time and look across the stinking lake. Somewhere on the other side of the Mire, cleared of the odorous fumes, Baskerville Hall glowed like a fragile candle caught between the pull of moonlight and the chilly flicker of gaslights.

* * *

A cuckoo-clock chimed Lilliputian bells of brass over the natural sounds of Baskerville Hall, which at this time of night were the crackles of a wood-fire burning yellow in the fireplace, and the _scritch-scratch_ of Mr. Mortimer's ink-pen. The paper had flaws; a fibre caught upon the metal tip and the thin man flinched at the sensation of the metal snagging against the soft paper; it was as disgusting to the touch as the sound of nails upon chalk-slate, and he quickly pulled the pen back, before a puddle of ink could pollute the lower half of his hard-written reports.

Something had caught in the wires of his memory, the same way his pen-nib had caught upon the supposedly smooth paper. His hands busied themselves with settling the pen back in its rest; the wet words dried one molecule at a time under the lamp's heat, and Mortimer struggled to delve deep into the infinite sea of his brain and come up with a page cut from Time.

_Time. Man fears Time, but Time fears the Sphinx..._

Mortimer silently regarded the fireplace before his desk, which was carved with lion-like beasts displaying fang and claw and waves of curling mane. His grasshopper gaze flickered up the age-smoothed oaks, until a perfect moment occurred: a spark of red fire glinted off the heavy polish of a lion with a pagan sun-wheel held between its forepaws.

_There_. The memory surfaced. A conversation between himself and Dr. Watson after the regrettable Exodus across Switzerland.

"_We stopped at several small villages for provisions along the way..."_

Heavens, he could hear Dr. Watson speak clear as dew upon the periwinkle. The man was simply gifted in that sort of voice; a modulated organic machine of the throat that conveyed truth and projected atmosphere and colour. If Mortimer had so much as attempted to speak along these lines to his own flesh and blood family, and expected credulity, he would have been baulked.

"_We stopped at several small villages for provisions along the way... To the last man and woman, these hamlets—often-times no more than three or four little rude huts nestled like chicks against the slopes of the Swiss Crevices...I wish had the pen to write justice to these small places of the earth!"_

* * *

_The pen to write..._ Mortimer knew what Watson was truly saying: There were rare times when his pen joined the rail between his brain and fingertips, and the metal machine raced across blank paper, making train-tracks of words and thoughts. Nights would pass and he would blink at dawn, surprised at the empty bottles of India Black and the stains up his finger-nails. From what Mortimer understood, Dr. Watson frequently had these illuminating moments.

Mortimer's light, grasshopper thoughts often scattered from one moment to another, but they always returned to the subject at hand. Something about this night, this moment, was conjuring up thoughts of the doctor, and long experience had taught him to trust the workings of his own brain.

He was not of the superior intellect that allowed him the strength of will to control his brain—only a Sherlock Holmes or Sir Charles Baskerville would claim up to that awesome task—but something...

Mr. Mortimer forced himself to lower his pen to its stand. It was heavy; gravity fought him in his hand's reluctance to pull away from the world of reports and sentence structure...but if he didn't perform this brain-exercise now, he would remain distracted for (possibly) the rest of the night.

Sensing his master's mood, his spaniel patted from the fire-side to lower itself, two legs at a time, to the rug at his feet. The Surgeon reached down and stroked the nearest ear. He still remembered the spaniel Stapleton had killed (Mortimer would never deign to call the exile a Baskerville; the line was sullied enough). On the train-ride back to the Moors, Dr. Watson had played with him incessantly...

* * *

"Look at it all," Dr. Watson was admiring the low-lying greensward of farmland. London marked its distance as the world grew verdant. Small kine of old-fashioned stock grazed startlingly close to the edges of the train, but they were too canny to get too close. "I forget how different the city is with the countryside."

"And not all countrysides are equal," Mortimer told him. "I know what you mean. London is beautiful but not for its lush gardens!" They chuckled at that, even Sir Henry, who was lying back with a travelling notebook.

"I was always drawn to the places of the earth that looked like _this_," Sir Henry spoke up for the first time in many minutes; he had talked himself into exhaustion with Mortimer; Mortimer's speech was well trained in hours-long negotiations and it would take the baronet time to catch up. "I don't quite remember Dartmoor, or at least I thought I didn't. But now I see I _must_ have! I wanted the open lands; the wilds...where I could see broken rocks that poke out, and endless sky over my head."

"We have all three in plenitude!" Mortimer assured him. "And speaking of—what do you think of that show of rock?"

All three leaned into the window, making out a jagged-looking collection of stone that a wardrobe of thick moss could not quite soften.

"Rough as a badger's scath." Dr. Watson admired. "But it is man-made?"

"If you believe one of the stories." Mortimer smiled. "If you believe another, it was the work of giants."

"And you keep track of both stories?" Sir Henry smiled.

"Of course. I am a collector of the unknown. And this is an unknown. How I'd love an exploratory dig! But the earth is too soft and I have no desire to find myself in a trench with a large rock suddenly sitting over my head as a roof. It would be quite embarrassing to sit and hope for rescue."

"You live an interesting life, I think." Sir Henry told him.

"Hardly compared to my ancestors. I assure you I'm much more a diluted example of the first Mortimers."

"They came over with the Normans too, didn't they?" Sir Henry frowned lightly at a memory. "I remember hearing something of that once. Have our families been neighbors so long?"

"It would seem so. We do keep washing ashore at this one part of the world. I must say for all its phantasies, superstitions and unfathomables, Dartmoor is still a bit tamer than the Mortimers' land of origin."

Dr. Watson spoke up at that point, still patting the dog's head. "I would be curious to know the story, if we may?"

"Time passes, and many pages of history are long forgotten, I fear, but we came from the _Morte-mere_, "dead pond or sea" that complicated the efforts of the Cisterian monks who settled the Abbey of that name by Henry II by the Rouen." It was an impressively long speech, and Sir Henry was quite out of breath to hear it. "According to legend, the men of God were saddled with a large, stagnant pool of water; they either drained it or made the attempt and gave up." He chuckled lightly. "Eventually from such origins, the Mortimers rose in some slight show of power. They had a clever eye for advantageous marriages close to the Courts. Alas, the claims were all lost in the fuss we call the Wars of the Roses. Such is life, and many of my own family shrug it all aside. It is difficult for our fleeting minds to hover too closely to rulers. I fear we simply haven't the facility for clever politics."

"You seem clever enough, and I'll stand against any man who says differently." There was no doubt Sir Henry meant it.

"Such is the fate," Dr. Watson smiled too, but wistfully, "of having one's origins so closely tied to the what is called the most haunted abbey in France might have something to do with...one's natural belief in the supernatural?"

Mr. Mortimer found himself laughing out loud. "Excellently played, Dr. Watson!" he praised. "You are a man of wit. I would expect your Celtic brain retains room for interest in the indefinable mysteries." He lifted his hands in salute to the browned man. "Yes, it is true. A child who is weaned upon stories of The White Lady's Ghost wandering the halls, or the murdered spirits of the four monks..." He caught Sir Henry's fascinated expression. "Or how about the Goblin Cat?" He smiled. "Not as frighteningly mythic as your family's Hound, I regret, but there is a Goblin Cat haunting my ancestral home—or rather, its ruins."

"Now that's a different kind of story." Sir Henry leaned forward, his dark eyes snapping with interest. "A goblin cat, but not a ghost cat?"

"Not at all. I suppose because of the old superstitions about cats and their ability to be mysterious has done much to inflate their importance in myth and legend? But it would be _eul cat goublin_, a demonic cat guarding the lost treasures of the Abbey. Why a demonic creature would be guarding the possessions of _God_ I have no idea unless one of the Brothers had unwholesome studies on the sly. But from what I understand, it is a beast best avoided!"

Sir Henry whistled softly. "I think you have the worst of it, old fellow! If this Hound of the Baskervilles exists at all, it is clear the beast is a horror for the outside and doesn't come inside at all...but the Goblin Cat in your family is staying within the old walls, broken though they be. I'm not sure as how I'd prefer a Hound!"

Dr. Watson was smiling as well. There was no mockery in it, just the love of a good story. Mortimer recalled that precious moment, sharp as a blade of straw in August. The doctor (abnormally lean for his age and natural build) was still an emblem of manhood that a man might aspire to emulate. "You have an admirable steeping in Mysteries, sir."

"I suppose I've never thought about it." Mortimer was surprised into confession. "We grew up with such stories at the same time we were learning to read with our father's newspaper-accounts of the latest scientific discoveries. I confess my grandfather died still holding on to the hope that he would see a bridge of understanding between Science and Supernatural."

"Ah." Sir Henry dismissed that with a shrug. "Life is a puzzle on the best of days, and who is to say it hasn't already been solved? The trick then would be to find who solved it first and then thrash him for keeping the news to himself!"

"I would hate to imagine a mind so great as to accomplish such a feat doing nothing."

"And yet, that was exactly what Voltaire did." Dr. Watson pointed out. His humour had softened with a good bit of sadness. "The most intelligent man of learning in his day...and he could do nothing if he wished to avoid an ignominious end by the Church."

"At least the Church has passed the days in which it supported wholesale murder and torture." Mortimer said quickly.

"Yes...but I fear we as a species will always have...room for improvement." Watson sighed.

"I agree, but I hold out the hope that we never run out of the ability to improve!" Sir Henry exclaimed, and with that, the three conceded he had won the discussion.

* * *

Mortimer came back to the present. He was smiling; the dog resting under his stroking hand. Dr. Watson and Sir Henry were good men—two of the very best. Why they seemed to think highly of him was a vaguely comprehended mystery. He was an investigator of science and discovery and a devoted family man. But over it all, he was the dabbler, the plucker who dared compare his method of searching with Newton—staring at the small things on the beach and not knowing there was a great Ocean behind him.

He was a Mortimer: a thin and somewhat frail academic who had chosen his life against a "dead pool" far beyond the dreams of his Cisterian forefathers. The Great Grimpen Mire had become a part of his being as thoroughly as Dartmoor had become Sir Henry's. It was fitting somehow that the legacy was continuing on through another string of generations.

As a child he had been most wistful at the exploits of the other children, but his health had forbade the "nonsense" of physical exertion. He had chafed but learned to be patient, and one day after his growth had finally finished...the multitude of ills ended with it. He was far healthier now than he had been as a youth, but oh, how he wished he had been one of his cousins or brothers or even his sisters, running across the fields for the simple joy of the action.

They had played Pirates; he had dug the skeleton of an Iron Age graverobber out of a cairn, fallen rock still inside the broken nest of skull.

They had pantomimed themselves hunters; he had cleaned flint points out of dusty rib cages of man and beast.

They had carved their names on tree-trunks; he had made charcoal rubbings of ornate tombstones in the plots across the province. After all, graveyards were quiet places and his Eucemenical-minded parents approved of the soothing lessons and inspirations of God's Gardens.

They had climbed the highest lumps of earth for a game of King of the Hill. He had panted his way to the crown of a barrow larger than all of Baskerville Hall, and stopped, wiping triumphant sweat from his face as he surveyed the rolling farms and villages below.

* * *

Cornwall had not changed so much in the centuries; these houses were still small and rounded, thatched because thatch was plentiful and the livestock had been apportioned as it had been before St. Columba: sheep led the way, horses following, and the rough-clad folk paused and greeted each other with the warmth of long-lost friends. Just barely in view he could glimpse a slip of sun-blued sea, and what he guessed _might_ be Looe Island.

Abashed and exhilarated by the ability of Time to follow its own rules, Mortimer watched the scene before him and fell asleep under the sun. He woke at the chill of dusk, and was careful to pick his way down and make haste for the three miles on foot to his rented cottage. But that day stayed with him yet;

He had done so much with his life after all.

But he had done the majority of it alone, with no one to share in his insights and triumphs and even his failures.

The thin man pondered the fog-draped glass before his face and wished that he could be out there with Sir Henry, sharing in his quite dangerous adventure.

If doing the right thing was the easy thing to do...the world would be populated by the indolently righteous, Mortimer's mother liked to sniff when she was in one of her more critical moods. Her son agreed, but at the same time he wished some choices weren't quite so clear-cut.

Sir Henry had simply done what was right as a Baskerville and as a landowner upon Dartmoor. Mortimer had let him go without a word, keeping to the lines of his own duties. As if a scrawny scholar with crippling near-sightedness and a marked nervous disposition would be anything but a liability in a campaign...but Mortimer was philosopher enough to admit he could wish to be a greater man once in a while...even as his coarser self chuckled at his arrogance.

He was not the stuff of which heroes were made. He was the scholar who slogged through reams of paper and oceans of permanent nonsense in his quest for truth...no matter how much drivel he had to read, and no matter how much of mankind's lowest thoughts were in his way. Even if he'd thought about joining Sir Henry, his eyes would have made him the weak man in the group. He couldn't do that to his friend. He never did that to any of his friends; even as a child he kept to his studies and his private digs as the others ran amok and joyously into wild adventures. Yes, he often wished he would know what it was like to be one of them, but wishes weren't fishes.

_Scritch-scratch_. Another line in the paper filled. Another wet dip of the pen. The extra light of a small lamp at the desk threw its warmth upon the curl of his writing-hand, but the window a foot from its back cast the disapproving chill of Dartmoor on the other side.

Disapproving? Fanciful thought! Dartmoor had too many secrets and far too much age to bother itself with an opinion on the latest wave of invaders—which was how he privately saw Man.

The thin man's hand stilled and he glanced over it to the side-window that displayed the arrow-straight path that was Yew Alley.

Sir Henry's hard-bought gaslamps glowed up the Alley, illuminating in white and yellow the once dark path and a memory for murder. The young baronet had shown a surprising delicacy of atmosphere in his tastes, and hired the local blacksmiths to design the connecting wrought-work from lamp to lamp. The metalwork coiled and curved like vines or low-lying serpents and blended with the confusing pattern of yew branch and twig. The effect had been slow to take place after the installation, but the trees had grown back from the brutalisation of clearing as the iron-workers installed pipe and pole and stand. And now, years later, the metal and wood danced together, supporting the soft balls of light.

James Mortimer sadly surrendered his duties to the gloom of the present. The night had been spent responsibly until now. Mortimer was accustomed to thinking of several things at once, but this moment he surprised himself. It was as if the very night was rolling Time back to earlier days. He looked at the lit Alley, and remembered Sir Henry's vow for lamps. He remembered how Sir Charles kept it traditionally in the gloom and murk, with tiny table candles or oiled wicks and smoking fires the only illumination.

The skeletal man automatically blinked upwards, resting his shifting gaze upon the coal-black rafters over his head. The oak was age-hardened like fossil and the smoke had sealed the wood from the violation of air-bourne invaders. The smoked beams would outlast them all.

At last, the doctor ceased to write at all, and rested his pen gently in its stand. His long, nervous fingers fretted as they laced into each other under his chin, and he pondered in wordless contemplation.

He loved Dartmoor, but he didn't presume that it held him in particular love. If his life was spent in picking up a pebble or shell upon the beach while the great mystery of the ocean roared about him, then he was not arrogant in drawing this conclusion from Newton. Dartmoor was the ocean; was his ocean, with its earthen waves moving in sussurating stalks of leaf and grass even as the slumbering earth rolled and pitched and moved in the way the soft soils danced.

Dartmoor was a giant sleeping.

_Mortimer_. The surname of the Dead-Sea. He thought of this every time he looked upon the rolling scape of the moors, thought how much like the ocean these heather-clad lands were even as his fore-fathers prayed thanks that their children no longer feared death by drowning.

_You can still drown on land_, Mortimer thought to himself when he knew he was well alone and in the consul of none else but that of his mind.

_You can still drown. It can be quicksand, or even strong drink...or pneumonia or pleurisy of the lungs...but the lands that rose from the ocean are still the ocean's get...and a man can still drown inside the peat-clogged waters of the Mires._

* * *

1The phrase is an older use of snew (snowed), and survived in American English but by the 1880's had fallen out of British favour.


End file.
